National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!

[Deb]

Hi Folks,
My final three were haphazardly strewn together yesterday and the day before but I couldn't stay awake to post last night and fell asleep on the keyboard. Meant to post today but haven't been able to sit at the computer. Everything is on my laptop so I'm only posting the bits and pieces of what I remember. If it's okay with everyone else, I'll post the other two tomorrow after I have a place to sit down and an hour or so to help it make sense. This move is exhausting.

This is rough but something I'll pursue later.

From April 29th;

The Painter and the Poet

A watercolor is built in layers,
the painter starts with the lightest colors 
and works toward the dark tones.
Poets can begin and end with any hew,
in the dark tones of melancholy  
to the velvety texture of a rosebud
or the prick of its thorn.
The worded picture can be altered and juggled
but when a painter lays the paint down, 
the page is color stained and must be worked into the creation.

Poets can work by candlelight and hide in the dark.
Painters must have natural light.
Both must be authentic.

Watercolor paper is smooth, rough,
hot pressed, cold pressed, and to be contrary, not.
It has teeth and can be 140, 200 and 300 lbs
and is made of cotton, wood pulp, or linen.
The poet can scribble words on anything, anywhere;
your hand, a napkin, computer, 
from the backseat of a cab or on an airplane.
The painter must have a particular type
of canvas to absorb the media 
and a flat surface to work upon so the colors 
do not run where they aren’t wanted.
The poet must allow the creativity to spill all over the pages
then sort everything out after the spill.
It’s how the words describe the thoughts
not how well the paper holds the paint.

The painter uses strokes and techniques to create a scene.
The poet takes the scene and flushes the memories to draw out the words.
Both draw from a well within or from stimuli around, and always from the heart.

One suffers for her art, the other suffers because of it.
The poet works through the pain. The painter works because of it.
The painter gets lost in her work.
The poet is found in hers.
The painter paints to forget.
The poet writes to remember.

~Deb



.

 

[Deb]

Verbiage in the rough...

Stuff

I have too much stuff, or so, everyone tells me.
“Get rid of your hoard,” they say. 
But what of my hobbies and creative interests,
photographs and keepsakes?

I admonish me. Do I really need to keep
those baby teeth to glue to a picture frame
with place related rocks my children
presented to me as if they were diamonds?
These are more precious to me.
I still get a kick out of the creations of art and little-a-ture.

I’m advised, “Take pictures.”
But there is something to be said for the tangible,
tactile. 
Concert tickets and t-shirts,
dried flowers picked from that field of picnics,
and smiley faces drawn on photobooth craziness at the fair
recall the smells, the music, and the laughter.
My homage to an unsettled life in 32 moves. 
So many memories to forget, I fear, forgetting.

These things I cling to give as much as they take.
My family thinks my things are more important to me than they are.
Nothing is further from the truth.
I hold things 
to remember.
I may no longer visit those memories
after the reminders are gone.
You wouldn’t throw out your diamonds, why do I have to?

~Deb


 

[Colm Roe]

Linda, Deb, Lisa, Von, AJ, binx, Mark, and especially Tracy...I'm sure I've forgotten someone? 
Anywho, you're all fab. Gyppo and Dave are waiting to congratulate you in the bar.
There's a corpse lounging in fabulous drapes and degrees of corruption...ignore him, he's just looking 
for attention...and he never buys a round.
So glad the pressure is over, but I'm missing it already.
Hope you guys stick around 

viewtopic.php?f=522&t=1282

[Colm Roe]

Mon Dieu......Marcel....Mon Ami......
Forgive me...I'm old. I'll buy you good wine!

[Gyppo]

Deb,

Stuff touches a chord   I still have some stuff from my caravan childhood.  A clockwork train sits on the very top of my bookshelves, away from casually grabbing fingers.

But I find that memories come back without  something to hold.  Sometimes it's a similar physical action which triggers recall.  Watching the fallen May Blossom rolling and skipping along the road outside sparked two very clear memories recently.

Dad explaining how trout were often to be caught where impossibly shallow water danced and tumbled over riverbed pebble.  And then he proved it.

Also it recalled waking in my sleeping bag, seeing a eye-level view of sand blowing towards me across across the greyed tarmac of a desrted beachside road.  From that perspective it was miniature sand storm.

But diamonds are still diamonds, and it hurts to lose them.

Gyppo



 

[Tracy Mitchell]

[Tracy Mitchell]

[indar]

No we're not.

I might have a lot to say in the next couple of weeks about many poems I liked but didn't comment on and some I didn't get a chance to read. First I'm going to take a nap.

[Tom]

Indar - you are right of course.  Corrections have been made.

Sweet dreams. 
 

[Lecram06]

Hi Folks,
My final three were haphazardly strewn together yesterday and the day before but I couldn't stay awake to post last night and fell asleep on the keyboard. Meant to post today but haven't been able to sit at the computer. Everything is on my laptop so I'm only posting the bits and pieces of what I remember. If it's okay with everyone else, I'll post the other two tomorrow after I have a place to sit down and an hour or so to help it make sense. This move is exhausting.

This is rough but something I'll pursue later.

From April 29th;

The Painter and the Poet

A watercolor is built in layers,
the painter starts with the lightest colors 
and works toward the dark tones.
Poets can begin and end with any hew,
in the dark tones of melancholy  
to the velvety texture of a rosebud
or the prick of its thorn.
The worded picture can be altered and juggled
but when a painter lays the paint down, 
the page is color stained and must be worked into the creation.

Poets can work by candlelight and hide in the dark.
Painters must have natural light.
Both must be authentic.

Watercolor paper is smooth, rough,
hot pressed, cold pressed, and to be contrary, not.
It has teeth and can be 140, 200 and 300 lbs
and is made of cotton, wood pulp, or linen.
The poet can scribble words on anything, anywhere;
your hand, a napkin, computer, 
from the backseat of a cab or on an airplane.
The painter must have a particular type
of canvas to absorb the media 
and a flat surface to work upon so the colors 
do not run where they aren’t wanted.
The poet must allow the creativity to spill all over the pages
then sort everything out after the spill.
It’s how the words describe the thoughts
not how well the paper holds the paint.

The painter uses strokes and techniques to create a scene.
The poet takes the scene and flushes the memories to draw out the words.
Both draw from a well within or from stimuli around, and always from the heart.

One suffers for her art, the other suffers because of it.
The poet works through the pain. The painter works because of it.
The painter gets lost in her work.
The poet is found in hers.
The painter paints to forget.
The poet writes to remember.

~Deb



.

 

Since I dabble in paints and watercolors, I get it. Your soul shines forth in your language. Marcel