Finding the Metaphor in Maples

Confidence, says Ted Kooser. That's what a metaphor communicates.

But it isn't easy to deal in metaphors. They can get silly rather quickly, when we push the relationship between one thing and another too far (Kooser cites a poem about the ocean, which successfully compares the ocean to cows. The poem works because it doesn't go too far, like trying to say that the waves "Moo.")

This week, over at TheHighCalling, we're trying to revive dead metaphors. I might still do that, but here's a live one I found outside my window one evening...


Little Japanese ladies
walk to the edge
of every path,
dip their lace-green parasols
into the golden waves.

I am not going to say that it was good to be confident about this particular metaphor. Someone else surely could have done it better. What I can say is that the little confidence I had with it came from a very sure impression that the maple flowers looked like little parasols all tipped upside down. And for some reason I felt compelled to tell you that in a poem.

Well, at least you can be thankful I didn't have the ladies sing and serve tea to the sky. :)

___

Got a metaphor poem to share? Join Random Acts of Poetry, to share your link and possibly be featured.

(Also sharing today with One Shot Wednesday.)

Come Write with Us (While I Eat a Little Pasta)

While I was writing about Guy Kawasaki, the Business of Poetry, and your next RAP prompt, my girls went to the store, bought me flowers, and got ingredients to make dinner.

Then they actually made the dinner.

Talk about enchanting. :)

Before We Know Their Names

I wrote this for a friend whose child was in the hospital, and somehow it seems like the perfect poem for Mother's Day...

Ours

We call them to the world
before we even know their names,
before we understand
what it will mean
to lean beside their beds
on breath-thin nights.
They teach us how
to hold their hands,
shut the lights,
pray for dawn.


Got a Mother's Day poem to share? Join Random Acts of Poetry, to share your link and possibly be featured.

(Also sharing today with One Shot Wednesday.)

Writing Forgiveness

Lenten

I am the hardest person
to forgive;
at night I lie
awake and count my faults,
keep them under my pillow
like hard candy, unwrapped
and stuck
with feathers.


Post in honor of One Shot Wednesday. Also, we're writing forgiveness poems at TheHighCalling. Join us, for links and possible feature.

On a Friday Snowing, for Wednesday, On Tuesday

I wrote this on Friday, when I read the Random Acts of Poetry prompt. It's for One Shot Wednesday, but I'm posting it today. Tuesday. Why not? :)

Friday Afternoon

It is a gentle smothering,
this snow, this day
falling out
of a gray-white
sky, gently
eclipsing
concrete stairs,
which are all the wrong
sizes anyway.

For the Ghost of Christmas Future

This ends my trio of Christmas ghost poems, in honor of David's dare.

I thought to finish with a sestina, one of the more challenging forms. Thirty-nine lines. Six stanzas of six lines each, then a final stanza of three lines. The words (or tricky forms of them) at the ends of the lines repeat in a rolling fashion. See if you can figure it. Then in the final stanza, all the words from the ends of the lines repeat in a particular order, to create a grand finale of word-inclusion.

Spectre

If I close my starless eyes,
I can remember winter's future
where rooftops sing with icicles;
I dare them with red lips,
Drop your soul on me.
They do.

I cannot undo
the way they pierce my eyes,
sing a rhythmic do, re, mi,
coax the present to come early to my future
where carolers make o's with lips
on winter nights long-strung with icicles.

When sky turns velvet, breathing icicles
to carolers long overdue
on streets where I have whispered lips
to lips until you felt I'd
blinded you with promises of future
sung, and strung, a mistletoe of me

and we would tumble into infamy,
two royal loves with crowns of icicles
sleighing towards a holly-braided future
and there'd be much ado
for everything—especially your eyes,
especially my red and whispered lips.

Twelve golden fairies pursing crimson lips
might tend your hands that reach for me
to save my heart, my soul, my eyes
from slipping swords of falling icicles
that hurtle from the universe of do
and did and still-to-do for future

dreams of memories pressing to the future,
where rubied glass meets rubied lips
and we reach back to reach through time, undo
the snow lace falling, calling you from me,
calling you to merge your soul with icicles,
let them take the crystals of your eyes.

I still remember future nights when, starred, your eyes
meet rubied lips; it's all that they could do
to keep me stringing crowns, stop my turning into icicles.


Swing in Snow photo, by L.L. Barkat.

For the Ghost of Christmas Present

I've decided to write 12 poems for Christmas. Dave's Noel Ghosts dare and giveaway inspired me.

For the occasion, I thought to try a villanelle again. It's been a while.

The villanelle has an aba rhyme scheme. It has five 3-line stanzas and ends with a 4-line stanza. The first line of the first stanza becomes the 3rd line of the second stanza. The third line of the first stanza becomes the third line of the 3rd stanza. The first line of the first stanza becomes the third line of the fourth stanza. The third line of the first stanza becomes the third line of the fifth stanza. Then, to wrap it all up in the sixth stanza, we do an abab and put the first line of the first stanza as the third line and the third line of the first stanza as the last line.

If that sounds confusing, take a look at the poem below. You'll see how it works. Why not try one? Maybe with a Christmas ghost in the lines?

The Ghost of Christmas Present

She drifts amidst the holly
picking berries round and red
for the love of you, or me

avoiding news of tragedy
along each jagged edge
she drifts amidst the holly

pretending not to see
where evergreens have bled
for the love of you, or me

along an evening's melody
where harmony has lately fled
she drifts amidst the holly

painting crimson on her knees,
a silent angel fallen, led
for the love of you, or me

pricking fingertips on memory,
leaving things unsaid
she drifts amidst the holly
for the love of you, or me.

Handmade Wrapping Paper Gifts photo, by L.L. Barkat. This poem is offered for One Shot Wednesday and Random Acts of Poetry.

For the Ghost of Christmas Past

Write about a ghost of Christmas, he said. This was as close as I got, but I am perfectly happy with it...

The Promise

Send me your questions.
I will be your abbey,
full with apple trees,
rosemary, wattle fence
and quince.
Choose a plum.
I will answer your desire,
feed it to you sugared,
let my thumb touch
the cloisters
of your neck
and chin.

For Random Acts of Poetry, hosted at Dave's place (along with a giveaway) and Tweetspeak.

The Work of a Poem

Join us at TheHighCalling.org for Random Acts of Poetry. We can't wait to read your words.


Rocks in Stream photo, by L.L. Barkat.

Suddenly Tea is Solace and Story

I sat outside every day for a year. Most days, I brought nothing with me but a cup of tea. The tea was a way to measure my time. It was something to sort of do, while I sat and watched the trees.

Though I carried my drink to the same spot each day, I didn't know green tea from red from black, except in obvious ways. Imagine. For a whole year I ignored what was in my hands.

Of course, there is nothing wrong with that. I was there to enjoy the breeze, the zebra wasps, the crimson helicopter insects. I hadn't yet thought of considering my tea.

Really, it was not just the year outdoors that I ignored what was in my hands. Tea has been my companion for a good long while. My mother gave me the ritual of tea when I was a child, and I have carried it into adulthood.

But suddenly I am looking at this drink I hold daily, this companion I have steeped from bags and loose leaves, in pots and cups. I am reading about the history of tea, its chemical properties, its rich cultural and literary connections. I am even writing poetry (and next week you'll see a new story with tea at its heart).

Where will my new attention to tea take me? I suspect that doesn't matter. For now, it is taking me right here, to my own cup and the stories it holds.

Suddenly

Solace is me, opening
pages, white leaves that whisper
the secrets, the stories of tea.

---

This post is offered as part of One Shot Wednesday and HighCallingBlogs' Random Acts of Poetry.

Creme Earl Grey Tea photo by L.L. Barkat.

Driving to Words

Go driving, said Julia. It will give you miles to unwind.

I don't really like to drive. All week I drove my daughter back and forth to camp. I used it as a time to listen to music. But I was relieved when Friday came. Driving doesn't do for me what it does for Julia.

I prefer to unwind across pages or back porch mornings. Dew on begonias, sage, the lemon-thyme I just transplanted—these things give me rest, open me to write. While driving through Julia's words, I found a sentence that made me pause...

This is the molten light filmmakers call "golden hour," she said.

I liked that. I let it take hold of me. It tickled out an Independence Day poem of sorts...

Sunset

This is the golden hour,
when I can play out my life
in hot pink,
purple,
cherry red,
and instead of giving me
that look, you will
love me for it, ache
for tomorrow, ask me
to do it all over
again.









Fireworks and Girl photos, by L.L. Barkat.

Startled in the Shatter

Rabia of Basra grew up in ancient Mesopotamia. She is credited for being a major influence on the poet Rumi. Rabia, a woman of remarkable beauty, wrote many poignant poems about God.

She is also quoted as writing, "Show me where it hurts, God said, and every cell in my body burst into tears before His tender eyes."

Rabia had a hard life, after all. She somehow became separated from her parents at a very young age, was sold into slavery, and was used in a brothel until she was about 50 years old. Some say that her freedom was bought by a wealthy patron.

When did Rabia find God, and how? I tried to imagine the disturbing answers to these questions, in...

"Rabia's Confession"

You came to me in marbled echo
of their footsteps, smoothed leather
sandals removed and placed at arched
doors. I felt your presence in ruby
silk they expected me to wear,
gold-threaded, unwrapped
by hands that searched
for eternity in my breasts,
jasmine sweat, skin like
cinnamon.

Sometimes when in haste,
they lowered themselves
too hard, too fast,
Your voice startled in the small
shatter of a glass bangle
that fell from my wrist
with a 'clink, clink, clink,'
taking with it the tiniest offering
of blood.


Glass Bangles photo, by L.L. Barkat.

RELATED:
HighCallingBlogs' Glass Bangles, Silver Arms: Poetry on the Ancients

Writing Theft

I stole, at the dining room table while waiting to go off to opera (the fourth and final of my kids' performances in Suor Angelica). Outside, the day was grey. It put me in a poetic mood.



I stole the moment, as Cameron suggested a writer should, and I let myself dream a monster's life.

But first I remembered an odd theory, developed after a murder case was solved by a heart-transplant patient's "memories." She remembered because, they suspect, the brain is not the only seat of memory in the body. She remembered what happened in the life of someone else— her donor.

This led me to Frankenstein, Shelley's monster man, made from the parts of various people. What memories might lie in his heart, or toe, his tongue? What life— not his — did these memories come from? And what desires might they urge?

I daydreamed my answers into a form-poem called a pantoum, which I will share. But that is not all I stole.



I stole in the kitchen.



I stole at the opera dressing-room counter.



I took my words, stolen by degrees, and folded memories, love, hope, into five notes to friends (also Cameron's suggestion).



Who knew that writing-theft could be so heartening? It was.


Frankenstein

He stitched me limb by limb,
from pieces he gathered at graves
fresh dug. By candlelight dim
he sorted my heart, hips that once craved.

From pieces he gathered at graves,
I grew by night—calloused toes, amber eyes.
He sorted my heart, hips that once craved,
imprisoned the voice of a man who lied.

I grew by night—calloused toes, amber eyes,
searching for child I'd lost in the Rhine.
He imprisoned the voice of a man who lied
to keep his love from shearing the line.

Searching for child I'd lost in the Rhine,
I welcomed his breath to revive my tongue,
to keep my love from shearing the line,
and speak again of lilies undone.

I welcomed his breath to revive my tongue,
taste her love on a moonless night
and speak again of lilies undone—
their fragrance mocks my soulless plight,

as I wander a world whose fear near looms,
fresh dug by candlelight dim,
while lilies fade in empty rooms,
he stitched me limb by limb.


Suor Angelica photos and photos of cards by one of my favorite card makers, Elizabeth O. Weller, by L.L. Barkat.

RELATED:
HighCallingBlogs Quiltwork
nAncY's hcb book club
Nancy's Just a Minute
Glynn's The Right to Write: Laying Track
Marilyn's If
ELK's flight
Ann's Imperfect Conditions
Lyla's Bad Writing and Croissants
Monica's Week 2
Erin's Dismantling the Writing Life Fairy Tale
Cassandra's Living with My Writer
Melissa's When Everything Flows
Jezamama's Out of Hiding

Writing from Darkness

We are writing monster poems. Does that seem strange? I want to try my hand at it. Not easy. Here's my first and maybe I'll add more if I can find more...

Loch Ness

Sometimes on quiet mornings,
when a wooden boat carries red-haired boys,
passes over me— bottom shadow gliding—
I raise my head like a mutant swan, black,
a loon weeping, a winter-weary bird
seeking warmer air. I reach algae-eaten face,
red eyes, to stars invisible by dawn, whisper
that I understand what it is to desire
a constellation that would not assume
I prefer to live in darkness.

RELATED:
Sara's The Visit


LL Self-Portrait photo, by L.L. Barkat. :)

On Writing an Easter Poem

On Writing an Easter Poem

I watch women,
men, girls
come to the table
with eggs— fuschia, lemon,
baby blue. They write of
redemption in thin shells,
and all I can do is open
my mouth like a teenaged
boy who's looking for
his voice and finds...
it cracks.


Eggs in Gallery photo by L.L. Barkat.

Remembering Fire

A few months back, when I met Bradley thirty years late, he gently suggested I might want to write about the fires. I wasn't very happy with my first tries (and critiqued one of them here). This is a new attempt, and maybe begins to get at the things I want to get at...

"Quick"

Who found faded yellow,
brown box, jimmied
tin lid with spoon's end
taken from our new
kitchen; the old one
spit out this blackened
package of sugar chocolate
crying for milk, pink bunny
laughing though his ear
had been eaten by flames—
who started it I wonder, who
burned down linoleum-cracked
floor, table where sister choked
on peas like we are choking our
blond baby niece
with mealy brown powder
on a tongue crying
for milk, mama,
milk.

Self-Portrait at Chelsea Gallery, photo by L.L. Barkat.


POETRY FRIDAY:
HighCallingBlogs's Life on the Street
Laura’s I Am the Gate
Nancy’s Our Street
Melissa’s she, stirring
Eric’s Hidden Joy
Jim’s Parables
Susan’s No Fairy Tale
Glynn’s Hope, Blinking and Rues de Martyrs
nAncy’s a road
Dave’s On Quincy Street
Kathleen’s Dear Frankie
Maureen’s Reunions: Father
Marilee’s Laurel Hedge
LL's 56 Irving Place, Gramercy Park
Cindy’s Crossing at Kicker Road
Simple Country Girl’s Street Address: End of Dirt Road and Farm Door Beckons
Liz’s Highway 60
Prairie Chick’s One Country Mile
Linda’s The Farm on Buffalo Ridge
Claire’s Blikkie
Monica’s When He Lived on Horsefly Road
Susanne’s 716 El Rancho Drive
Emily's Stonybrook
Kelly's March on St. June
Missy K's West Washington

Streetwise Poetry

The streets of NYC fascinate me. Streets in general fascinate me. Okay, so this week's Random Acts of Poetry Prompt should be no surprise. :)


NYU Building Near Cooper Union, photo by L.L. Barkat.

Pittsburgh in Sestina

Pittsburgh, you inspire. Here is where I will push myself harder, like I said I would. Today in sestina. A form poem, hard on my pen, on my mind.



"Pittsburgh"

Snow has fallen on Penn Avenue,
as golden morning, fallen, melting
and I walk past Heinz dead sign
pouring wishes red by ruffled bird
head cut near booted print of water
gathered on these winter shoes.

Morning meets our faces, lights our shoes
traipsing past chrysanthemums on Avenue;
I wonder if this smiling man wants water
even as he fingers tunes, accordion melting
Pittsburgh into Italy like blue crow bird
balancing on wires, pointing like a sign

to better days or worse days, unsign
my heart in city's morning, under shoes
like memories of Italy if I were crow bird
coming faster than a ship to Avenue,
bringing back a tune for you, melting
from the sun, off my wings like water

and you like red accordion, under water
moved with motion slow, muffled sign
of lilting love trembled fingers melting,
lay your undulating heart like shoes
skirting ice, skirting mud on Avenue
tipping toes to sky tapping like a bird

against a building, aged, flocked with bird
and bird and bird, flicking winged water
at a golden sun, over market on the Avenue,
daring with their beaks a silver studded sign
directing cars to park like spotted shoes
that walked the day, trod your memory melting

like reflections on the glass, Pittsburgh melting
old against the morning like a crow black bird
in final flight, mocking if he could your tap of shoes
that crack and split the concrete, splash the water
of my heart, poured out like Heinz red neon sign
drifting 'midst lost tune of accordion on Avenue

fading, fading like the light of morning over water
dreaming, dreaming for the surety of one last sign
clapping, clapping like a shoe or bird on melting Avenue.















Pittsburgh photos, by L.L. Barkat.

Sometimes a Picture

From beautiful Kelly... images that speak beyond the words.


Stayed

for Ann Voskamp


Why do we not
leave home.
Is it really for fear
of what lies
beyond, or rather
for fear that the
roof will abscond
with the doors
and the shutters
we’ve always known.
And who would they
blame if it happened
just so, if the whole
curtained place simply
picked up its stakes,
disappeared on the wind
in our absence. What
are we really afraid
of, why do we not
leave home.


Reprinted from InsideOut: poems, by L.L. Barkat.



Take a small walk over to Kelly's place, to see the poem she's paired with these frosted blossoms. Can you guess before you get there?


Photos by Kelly Langner Sauer. Used with permission. For a full-sized, gorgeous view of the top photo, visit Kelly's photo blog. (Click "Large Size" and then the Blog Tab when you get there.)

Flush

Billy's kids (not Billy
the Kid), shot a hole
through the weather
with two ice cubes

flushed,

rushed to frosted
window, blue
hoping they'd killed
a school day good,

power

misunderstood.
How many times
have I pressed life to
my chest, held

hearts

flush to the hole
of desire, tightened
a rope wishing I
could cinch it

royal, good.


Frost on My Window, photo by L.L. Barkat.