What Ever Happened to Poetry Thursday?

Local Cemetery

They up and moved themselves to some fancy new website.

I don't care for that.

If you can't play in Bloggerville with the rest of us (or in some adjacent neighborhood, such as WordPress: the only other acceptable blogish-town, in my internet-geekish opinion) then count me out.

I don’t like it when blogs get too big for their britches, is all.

But perhaps it has something to do with 'em getting too many hits.

I wouldn’t know...I have about one-fourth the readership the deadblog got, and have a pretty good feeling that dear old deadblog shall haunt me for all eternity.

Note to fellow Bloggers: Never kill your blog. ;)

And yes, I am feeling a million times better this morning. For those of you who care. Thank you! And here's a poem for you, not in honor of Poetry Thursday, mind you, but for Poetry the Day Between Wednesday and Friday ™.

(Ash giggles, and gets quiet, serious, dare I say pretentious)

An Ode to Soup, and All Mankind

If spoons were made of cheddar cheese
I'd keep you between my knees
Where soup cans roll about the floor
To knock upon my open door

We'll eat tomatoes, crackers too
and dine upon your pining stew
For bread to break and tea to sip
Watch it now: you'll stain my slip.

Poetry Thursday: Welcome to my street

This week's prompt is to write a poem about a street. I kept that in mind as I wrote this little piece of self-abusing poetry sometime late Wednesday night.

And to beat the bad rap of skeptic, for once I didn’t fake it.

Though perhaps I should have.

Hate Street

Nobody hates me
as much as I hate me
Please hate me
As I hate me
Hating to hate me
I hate the word hate
Hate, a thousand times more
a million times over!
I can't stop thinking, Hate
I can't stop saying
I scream it in my own head
my own ears
I hate
I make no sound at all
yet I hear it still
I see it like a blinking clock no one bothered to reset
after the power went out
a horrible storm
surge
I can't keep time
Perpetual midnight
I hate I hate I hate I hate
me
living here on Hate Street
in a three story high rise
overlooking the hate.

Poetry Thursday: Is this a survey I see before me?

Yummy delicious Joel McHale

This week's prompt is a poetry survey created here. We're filling it out versus writing an actual poem. I'm lazy, so that's great.

1) The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was...

Casey at the Bat. As a child, I heard this one many times, and always wanted to feel sorry for Casey, but found it hard. He was so arrogant. So sure he would succeed. I learned to keep my head down, my hopes hidden. Never expect anything.

2) I was forced to memorize (name of poem) in school and...

I was never forced to memorize a poem in school. I did have to recite from memory the dagger soliloquy from Macbeth.

3) I read/don’t read poetry because...

I don't read poetry because I prefer novels. Though I do occasionally check out a poetry book from the library. I stick to the classics. I don't read much poetry on blogs, because lots of 'em are pretentious, and Look at me! I'm rhyming. I'm sad. It's embarrassing. But there are some damn fine poets. Writing eloquent poetry. I'm not one of them, so yes. Novels.

4) A poem I’m likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is...

The Raven

5) I write/don’t write poetry, but...

I do write it, but not as well as I used to.

6) My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature...

In the sense that I rarely do either.

7) I find poetry...

Easy to imitate.

8) The last time I heard poetry...

Was probably in a film.

9) I think poetry is like...

Dance. The written equivalent. It's an expressive art form that can be beautiful when every thoughtful movement is well placed. Every muscle, well-trained. Though it is often cheapened by dancers who don't know how to dance, because they don't understand it. They put no thought into it. It’s just physical. Going through the motions. Attempted by clumsy wannabes, trashy girls in halter tops, those desperate for attention.

If writing a novel is more than just typing; if it is painting a picture for others to see if their heads. Then poetry is dance.

(Cough, cough) How pretentious.

Poetry Thursday: Blue Monday

This week's prompt was to attend a poetry reading. I can't, nor won't, do that. Instead, I wrote the following this past Monday, after taking a walk at sunrise to cure my writer’s block.

Poor Man's Snow

I went walking through the frost
To pretend that it was snow
Crunching sounds of white powder
Dust
On frozen grass that doesn’t know

It’s not snow
I said, but smiled
For the earth is just as cold

Whether frost is sleeping on the ground
Or whether it is snow.

Poetry Thursday: Liar, Liar, Tights on Fire

Tis actually Sunday, November 19th. I missed Poetry Thursday due to noveling, isolation, and depression in general.

The prompt o' the week was to lie through poetry. Pick a few objects, and tell anything but the truth.

I wrote this a few days ago by hand:

Ten

Boys don't cry
Pictures never lie
God is dead
Death is the end
Life is what you make it
Birth is painless
Writing can be taught
Blogging doesn't hurt
Love is all you need
Sex can be meaningless

Okay, so it's not an actual poem, just a list. I’m busy writing. Tired. Lonely.

I feel invisible. Posting in a mere attempt to keep my foot in the door, lest it slam shut, and lock me out in the cold.

I’m so sorry I can’t be better to you.

I’m worn out, and hardly good to myself.

My heart hurts so bad for the lack of something. For the fear of a drunken December. An unfinished novel. A lost contest. Getting lost in the process.

I feel so out of balance. Overworked. Overwriting.

Selfish and guilty for all the promises I mean with all my heart, but never keep. An accidental liar.

It’s just so quiet.

I hope all is well in your life.

Mine’s a mess...

Since we're being honest. ;)

Poetry Thursday: How I wish you were here

This week's prompt is to take a field trip. An artist’s day. A date with yourself, then to photograph something poetic. Draw a picture of it. Whatever melts your butter. Then write a poem. Blog it, without complaining of oral pain, how you haven't been online since Monday, and how the hell will you ever win NaNoWriMo when all you want to do is sleep, blog, and complain?

I take a field trip once a week. Unless I can't for some reason (like this week). Then I get cranky. I can't think straight. All work and no play make Ash a dull girl!

The only cure is a day at the lake.

Where the Fish Swim

I sit above them
and watch as they breathe
what chokes me
should I fall in
shining skin
of fins and scales
sunlight reflecting
golden
on each silver face

I wait
as the school grows larger
for the sunset
the heat of the water
soon to fade
bodies turning upright
floating to the surface
where the air is too thin
and the dead fish parade.

Poetry Thursday: Reciting Lines on a Foggy Morning

A local pond, from my walk at sunrise

While dead, I can still write poetry...toss 'em like bottles filled with scrolls towards the wooden fence of home.

This week's prompt was/is My Favorite Line of Poetry. I am to reveal a line of poetry I love, whether written by me or someone better, and wrap my own poem around it.

The lines I most adore are by Robert Frost; the final stanza from Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep.

...

Mile Thick Fog

I walk into the fog of morning
wet grass
the sound of animals and birds
singing and chirping
crickets make violins of their legs

I walk into the fog of daylight
sun shining
casting its rays of gold and orange
to warm the wet grass
and the crickets that play

I walk into the fog of each new day
never knowing
if life will soon end
is this my final moment?
the birds circle overhead

I walk into the fog of evening
sun setting
animals make their bed of dry grass
the dirt where they live
till this day is dead

I walk into the fog of midnight
moon rising
shadows stretch across the land
I lose my way on this cold day
with miles to go before I rest

Poetry Thursday: Right in Front of Me

This week's prompt is What’s in front of you. What inspires you. Where you go and what you see and how you feel. The words that come forth, straight from your heart and head.

In front of me, I see a bright screen. I see lights. I see boxes and blinking cursers. The proverbial blank page, just waiting to be filled. The possibility of an improvised poem. Not for what Inspires me, or what I see, but for who.

New Cart Smell

I lie in my hospital gown
in my hospital bed
in this hospital room
where the smell of blood
is looming

The day begins outside
noises in the hallway
voices over charts
hanging on the back of doors
the secrets they write

Windows open with slits of light
morning shines
I’m scared to be alive

I hear crying
footsteps
the door swings open
a nurse walks inside
pushing a cart

Four sides
a clear plastic bed
for a baby that's mine

I raise my head and smile
take her in my arms
as she waves tiny fists
with closed eyes
always missing

I kiss her

I whisper:

Welcome to your life

Poetry Thursday: Avoid the Kitchen, that's where the poems are

This week's prompt at Poetry Thursday is What We Avoid. As poets, writers, people in general.

I avoid myself. The sound of my own inner voice. I isolate myself for a bit of quiet, though the quiet drives me back to writing lest that pesky inner voice grow too loud. My head too full. My heart too empty.

That's where poetry comes in.

It empties my heart, like cleaning the lint trap of the clothes dryer.

While "cleaning", I try my best to avoid A) Ovary Poetry, B) Weirdo Beatnik Poetry, C) Greeting Card Poetry, and D) Refrigerator Poetry.

Example of A :

The life force of my body
Eggs
Something stupid about love and bon-bon’s
All hail womankind!

I have no idea...mush-mash and such.

Example of B :

DeaTH chAses Me
To SEe
what My EyeS hear
The Pain, the pain
OF My Father'S birtH
KillING me
My OWn two Hands
Dieing

[Ash giggling] Again, I have no idea...that one reads a bit more like a sad little gothic kid* who want to slit their wrists and wear nothing but black and eat seeds and smoke cigarettes. Constantly whining and taking up space.

*This form should also be avoided.

Example of C :

Our Love is the brightest
of all stars
in the heavens
shining for eternity
like never ending rings

Bleh.

Love is stupid and should be hated.

Example of D :

I was reading an article the other day on the low standards of the average American when it comes to entertainment. How watered-down and dumb television and film has become. Etc, etc. And came across the phrase Refrigerator Poetry. How anyone (yes, anyone) can "write" poetry with the help of those "delightful" little magnets.

I own a set of them myself. They were a gift, and I'm thankful for 'em. I smiled and thought 'em quite delightful myself. But for actual writing? Well, poetry, to me, is a bit more than magnets on a fridge...though for the sake of this (now slightly wayward) post, here's a fridge poem for you. "Written" by me between four-fifty and five-seventeen of this morning, sitting barefoot on the fake hardwood of my cold kitchen floor with a cup of coffee, my camera, and no idea whatsoever on how to go about creating something of coherence with nothing but magnets, the hum of the fridge, and my heart's inner voice still sleeping.



For the kids who can't read good:

Love Me
Save Me
Interrogate Me
Hate Me

Use Me
Fix Me

Obliterate Me

Okay, so I filled in the blanks a bit. And yes, the third magnet says Integrate, not Interrogate, but I didn't know that at the time [cough-cough, Ash can't read good either].

...

End Note: Ninety percent of this is my joking. I respect poetry, poets, and anything they say and represent (within reason).

I think the only poetry that should be avoided is dishonest poetry. As long as you're telling the truth, not Non-fiction necessarily, but the truth as your heart and head sees it, then poetry is great and should be loved. As long as writing it made the poet happy.

I'm not happy.

I'm ready for November and fictional prose.

Poetry Thursday: In the News; America! (Rebuild! Restore! Reconsider...)

When you write a poem, I know the words. I know the sounds. Before you write it down.

Today's prompt for Poetry Thursday is to pick up a magazine or watch the news, and magically become inspired! by...what? I have no idea. The news depresses me, and rightly should. I'll just write a poem about something else, thank you. How about...[Ash thinking]...Sufjan! Yes, Sufjan. I'm listening to him now, and why not an ode to my future husband?

A Man to Love Me

On the lakes of Canada
you sing my name
your banjo by your side
strumming harder
faster
rowing to the borderline

Swim across Lake Michigan
where morning comes in Paradise
for those children of the dead
you stop and sing a while
to lift their weary heads!

You drive through Illinois
‘til the avalanche buries you
and all is silent as you see
you've made a lot of mistakes
to be alone with me

What did you leave?
on that beautiful lake
your banjo in its black case
sprinkled with snow
like delicate lace

You look for my face
down in Arkansas
as you fly across the land
like the Lord God bird
all delighted people raise their hands!

Swarmed by your fans
I'm pushed aside
in the airport, near the plane you'll ride
when you leave again
to the lake, to hide

You find me and smile
Oh Ashley! you sing
I ask, What took you so long?
I got buried, you say
but I thought of a song

With no banjo to play?
I hold your hand as we fly
back north to the place
where your love lies
along with your case

You take me out on the lake
and play as I row
singing, Chicago
‘til we smile and make love
beneath the Fall sun
where all things go

You had to find it
buried in snow

Poetry Thursday: My Body, You Didn't Want

It’s not really the Fifth of October. It's the Seventeenth. I was severely depressed and/or offline the Fifth, so I missed a poem.

The prompt was My Body.

Dead of Winter

You smiled at me once
I saw your teeth flash white
like the snow we walk now
our feet sinking further
with every step
into the night

The trees grow taller
ice forming on pines
their heavy branches
run needles on the ground
like the fingers of a child

We stop in a clearing
you're quiet by my side
your arms wrap around me
and you lift me up high
throwing me to the night
where the wolves wait near by
you run and hide beneath the weighed-down pines

On my back
I am crying
as the wolves find me lying
in the open
moonlight shining
on tears in my eyes
the snow in the pines
they rip my skin
limb from limb
my body, broken

I remember your smile

Poetry Thursday: Ash can't read good

Three Year Old Me with "Soft dog" and ugly shoes

I'm starting to think I'm not exactly cut out for this Poetry Thursday crowd.

This week, they’re writing something about, um, "synaesthesia"? I can't pronounce that. Can't read it or spell it. I can't for the life of me figure out what the hell it is! "Synaesthesia." Sounds made-up to me...

Something about a feast, or a dinner party? As if I go to dinner parties...I eat dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets with a two year old! I'm lucky if I have a bit of conversation in the process. Usually something along the lines of, Don't throw your corndog on the floor. Yes, you can have the rest of mommy's mayonnaise sandwich. No, I don't want to "blah blah" my plate. (Sigh)

I'll make something else up, though, just for the sake of continued participation. God knows I'm not doing too well with the whole Sunday Scribblings thing. I've been writing for 'em, just not posting. No time for editing these days, but Poetry and editing don't mix anyway, so here goes nothing.

For the kids who can't read good...

Almost October

I walk into a life
Where I'm not wanted
She's not ready
For another child
I'm supposed to be a boy
That's what they told her
And here I am
Another daughter
For a father
Who's never home

I'll be the son I was meant to
Where blue carpet fills my room
Blue curtains
I'll go shirtless
And fishing
Take long rides in his GTO
I'll never be the girl they never wanted
The boy
The son
The disappointment of October

I'll keep going til they're happy I was born

Poetry Thursday: The Real Me, If I Could Make a Killing...

Tis Friday now, but being late is nothing new for me and you, and how are you? Great, I hope! I'm at an all time low. That's to be expected when you invite an unruly guest into your house. You wanted him there, and he's sleeping on the sofa, eating all your food, blowing out the breakers (oh wait, that was me and the lightening) and generally just making a mess of everything.

His name is Fiction. And while he's tearing apart things in my mind, crashing my nonfiction side, he's still welcomed in my head, though I have a feeling he's about to outstay that welcome.

I know all about that: I constantly outstay my welcomes, and generally make a mess of everything.

Speaking of me...

I'm supposed to be the real me this week for Poetry Thursday. Not Bogart, or McCourt, or anyone inbetween. But I don't like the real me. I don't think she's very smart. Compulsively honest and open to a loathsome degree. She has a dark side she's numb to. She rhymes. She writes bad poetry...

I wrote this on July 12th while heavily listening to Neutral Milk Hotel's The Aeroplane Over the Sea, watching lots of CNN, and contemplating the sad state of everyone inbetween.

Green Ground

We meet on the field where bombs surround
Shining silver
Breaks the green ground

The people are toppled
The ever shrinking crowd
Of eyes, waiting, watching
Cowering down

We make love on the field where bombs surround
Sole survivors
Man the green ground

The people are sleeping
The now silenced crowd
Of fully clothed corpses
Cowering down

We come on the field where bombs surround
Screaming soldiers
Ignite the green ground

The people are burning
As we sigh soft sounds
Of two lovers dieing
Cowering down

Poetry Thursday: I am not Myself

Yes, I'm late again on this. I had company on Thursday, and all was busy, albeit fun, in the little world of Ash and Baby Girl.

This week's theme at Poetry Thursday is to write a poem as if you were not yourself. Somebody else. Who am I? Who do I want to be?? It's all pretty obvious...I've had the same man in my head for a long time now, and it's about time I crawled into his.

What Dreams are Made Of
by H. D. Bogart

Tease me with the blonde whore
The money making machine
Throw me in another
Hard boiled mystery

They’d rather have James Cagney

I’m tired of being lonely
A drunken wife
To go home to
Not lights camera action

Behind the silver screen

It’s fading and I’m dieing
One last picture?
Sure why not
Filler up and play it, Sam
This may be it!
My Oscar

Nah, they'll snub me

I don't care
Give me gin
A pretty young thing
To tease me, test me
Keep me on my toes
And knock me off my feet

She’ll whistle in my ear

Read over scripts
Make films
A dream team on the screen
Coming true
Between the sheets

Or would she rather have James Cagney?

Poetry Thursday: Am I Blue

It's not actually Poetry Thursday at all. It's Monday, September Eleventh. So I'm just now posting this...I was too busy, and not online.

The theme for this/that week is/was to write about the color blue.

To let it inspire you...

I'm actually much more inspired by the color green, but for the sake and spirit of Poetry Thursday, I closed my eyes, and saw fiction. Bad fiction, but here it is:

Baby Blue

You wake me in morning
running your hand
along the painted wall
made of wooden planks
each touched by the sun
shining through the open window
a cool breeze blowing past us
with light bathing the soft blue gloss
to shine like a front porch on the seaside
where lovers swing

Outside the window
the ocean sings to me
a sad song to amplify my memories
I rise from the bed
tied up in a gown of our green sheet
you smile at me
and take a step further
through the shadows near the baseboards
tip-toeing on hardwood floors
where footsteps once pitter-pattered

They faded so suddenly
the accident
our child running to the door
tearing the screen
to the beach, he walked
to find blue-green
the frame opening, slamming
thanks to the wind
screaming, "You’re child is gone!"
where forever, he’ll swim

The waves wash the sand
and it never gets cleaner, but it never stops trying
You place your hands on my cheek
To stop me from crying
to wipe away pain
you laugh at me
for ending up here again
here in his room, in his tiny bed
all surrounded by blue
where the sunlight creeps in

Poetry Thursday: Carry it with You

This week's Poetry Thursday seems to be entirely optional. Up to me. Though something was mentioned of carrying a poem with you. Write it down, put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day, or Thursday. Whichever comes sooner...

It's rained here all week. Long gray days full of pain and a fussy child, I'm not sure I wrote an ounce of poetry, let alone carried any with me. Maybe a bit of Byron. She walks in beauty like the night...a friend reminded me of Dead Poets Society. Standing on a desk, ripping out pages...let's do that, and Oh Captain, My Captain, she says in a breathless Bacall-esque tone. I'll purr in your ear, and yes, poetry: I nearly forgot. How could I?

Poetry Thursday, August 31st.

Only yesterday did I realize that August even had thirty one days. I thought it was over. September. Ready to be officially alive, and say goodbye to another friend.

My poem for today was written by hand on an August afternoon, so hence the first line. It’s true...most of it. Though I was obviously just writing and not doing what the poem implies.

In honor of August, and the thoughts I carried with me throughout this long hot summer, here it is, Oh reader, my friend:

Quietly

On an August Afternoon
In a sunlit room
With the ceiling fan on high, overhead

I am calm beneath the covers
Above me, warm air hovers
Where golden light and white walls are softly wed

I rub cool bare-feet
On sweat-soaked sheets
Up and down my own shaved legs

Hands beneath the quilt
I smile, and feel no guilt
For the places my mind has lead

My fingers soon to find
A tie that tightly binds
The thin blue dress I long to shed

Unzipping, and its slowing...
Arch my back until I'm glowing
And the sun outside my blinds burns bright red

I feel the heat through the glass
As this moment comes to pass
My naked shadow cast

So quietly in bed

Poetry Thursday: On Time

I've seen other writers taking part in a Blogger-based program known as Poetry Thursday.

My lovely friends JVS and BB both do so, and I've always been quite jealous of them. They're amazing writers, and I'm so very glad they're here.

I want to join in. I think one of the most important parts of blogging, if not the most important part for the writerly crowd, is the feeling of mutual respect, support, and understanding you can and will hopefully receive from fellow writers.

It's a community. A writer's community, sans the hippies, and cabins, and taking to the woods ala Walden. It's more modern. And simple, in the best possible sense. It's strictly about writing, and writers, and all those pretty words...

Poetry. Yes, yes.

I wrote about that yesterday...I'm not sure why. Just trying to find some reason, I guess. Reason to be here...why am I here?? Why do I write? What do I write? How, and is it good, bad, or ugly? Do I want to share it?? Is poetry enough?

It goes on and on. Questions without answers.

I'm one of those girls who has to ask the questions, regardless of the answers, or the lack thereof.

I need to know where I stand with not only myself, but every thing and everyone. I'm a bit of a control freak. Not for the sake of being in control...just for the sake of not being out of control.

I get scared.

And that bit of childishness brings me to my very first poem o' participation in Poetry Thursday, and its lovely community of poets. (Hi!)

This week's theme is Time.

I've spent all summer writing about time. It's been a very special word since May.

I don't actually have time now, though, to write a decent poem...

But, in honor of time, and the past...I'm going to share the one single poem I ever had published. I was ten. It's called Time.

Time
Time is ticking fast away
Tomorrow, today will be yesterday
Where it goes, I cannot say
Time is ticking fast away

Ha. Not exactly genius, but it is kind of cute. Very close to my heart, at least.

So, congratulations, ten year old Ash! You got published, and I haven't. I do like your idea of time, though...

Where it goes, I still can't say.

Time is ticking fast away.