Day 11 NaPoWriMo Poem Using the Senses

Quaternary clay in Estonia.

clay Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For this prompt, I went back to a poem from January when I tried pottery for the first time. The first poem described how I adjusted to the idea that sticky fingers were not necessarily a bad thing, and on how the clay felt as I worked it. This time, I tried to bring in all 5 senses, as the prompt asked.

Fingers Learning to Mold Clay

the first touch sticky, resistant
as fingers hesitate to work the clay.
but the brick is cool and moist, faint-scented
the smell of clean earth. It waits
to be poked, prodded, pounded and flattened.

Hands begin to work, ears tuning to
the soft squish of clay whispering secrets
to striations on the mold that
birthmarks its flattened face.

As I watch, it shape-shifts, sharp corners
soften and round. How quickly it dries,
figures formed from rolled clay fingers
now reluctant to join themselves to plate.
I lick my fingers, the taste like dry earth
and salt, a hint of cool spring rain.
The clay softens and seals, no longer brick.
Three penguins cluster there upon
a textured earthen plate.

Carol A. Stephen
April 11, 2012

Carol A. Stephen

Day 10 NaPoWriMo Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Woods?

Footbridge over the stream. Deep in the woods ...

Deep in the woods (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Today, the prompt is to use a first line from someone else’s poem and write your own poem from there. I found a poem by Tim Prior in CV2 Winter 2012 that I had dogeared for future reference. This was not quite the poem I was intending to write using his poem as inspiration. At least, not at the time I dogeared it. But here is what came when I started to write.

Who’s Afraid in the Big Bad Woods?

What do you fear in the woods
when the trees fold their branches around you
closing out the sky, when the sun no longer
warms you with her soft touch and the path
twists again and again till you’re confused,
and have lost your way?

Is it the sound of reeds drumming on hollow logs,
hoofbeats of horses that galloped these woods until
their riders were never seen again? Is it the warping
of the light, how it filters through leaves, the distortion
of time and place, or the fear of darkness at the end of day
the path no longer seen?

Is it the heartbeat pounding in your chest,
choking out each breath as you climb the same hill
for the third time in an hour? Is it the chiming of a distant
steeple, heard but not seen, its song sung in a minor key,
a dissonance falling harshly on the ear, as it announces
the lateness of the hour

Is it the stories remembered from childhood,
a girl in a red cloak, a clever wolf, a horseman
riding headless at midnight, banshees and children
who meet  old women with ovens and appetites,
and you—you  have come to these woods, forgetting
your pocketful of crumbs?

Carol A. Stephen
April 10, 2012

Day 9 NaPoWriMo Persona poem

Today’s prompt is to write in another persona. I’m a bit late today as my brother is here visiting, but in order to keep with the flow I have “cheated” a bit in revising an older poem. This one is in the voice of Eleanor of Aquitaine.

Eleanor’s Lament  (Henri has not come)

My steps take me
again to the place of wailing
behind castle stones
where  walls weep dark tears.
Henri has not come,
though I will him so.

Pride may kill this love,
its heartbeats falter
as a small bird
quivers when held
even between gentle hands.
Henri has not come.

I shelter in this place of shadows,
keen softly at the sharp stings
of  loss and sorrow.
Henri has not come,
and Fate forbids I go.

Fate stains the dark stones
of a thousand years, yet
they stand, precarious.
A soft breath and they may
fall away.

I cannot tell Henri’s heart
from the fallen stones.
My heart lies shattered, a thousand
and a thousand shards
glint in the wet gleam
of bitter tears
and still—
Henri comes not.

Carol A Stephen
as Eleanor of Aquitaine, during her time kept prisoner by her husband, Henry II

Eleanor of Aquitaine, queen consort of Henry I...

Eleanor of Aquitaine, queen consort of Henry II of England. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Day 8 NaPoWriMo Easter Sunday Walk

 

 

 

Carol A. Stephen

 

Today’s prompt is to walk with a notebook, observing, and then to sit and write.  Here in Eastern Ontario, the day is bright and blue with the promise of 14 degrees Celsius later on. Spring doesn’t arrive as early as it does in Toronto, which is one of the things I truly miss about my hometown. Nevertheless, it does arrive, unexpectedly showing itself in corners of gardens. My poem tries to capture this a little. Just as a note, Carleton Place, not far from Ottawa, is on the banks of the Mississippi River. (No, not the mighty one, but a pretty river just the same!)

Carleton Place on the Mississippi

 

 

 

Walking Along the Other Mississippi 

Easter Sunday, Lanark County, Eastern Ontario

Sun rises early now, the morning bright
blue outlining maple branches,
bare but promising buds.
Birds gather round feeders, songs
sounding Easter morning hymns of praise

for spring arriving, chasing away the last
of winter’s white. Lilac offers green hints
of purple blossoms, coming attractions.

Along Lake Avenue, a surprise of daffodils,
full-bloomed where micro-climate pockets
already welcome warming air.
Forsythia flaunts yellow, green leaves of tulips tease,
early scarlet flutes not ready for their close-ups.

On the back steps, squirrels have found the nuts
their own Easter hunt successful. Lanark County
celebrates spring’s arrival, nature’s own flourish
grander than any man-made Easter parade.

Carol A. Stephen
April 8, 2012