Antonymic Translation with Jennifer Guyor Jowett
Welcome to Day 2 of the July Open Write. If you have written with us before, welcome back. If you are joining us for the first time, you are in the kind, capable hands of today’s host, so just read prompt below and then, when you are ready, write in the comment section below. We do ask that if you write, in the spirit of reciprocity, you respond to three or more writers. To learn more about the Open Write, click here.
Jennifer lives in the mitten state where she’s taught Literature and English for over thirty years. Her novel Into the Shadows is a middle grade historical fiction inspired by true life events. Jennifer is a frequent 5 Day Open Write and #verselove participant and host and a member of #booksojourn. https://jenniferguyorjowett.weebly.com/
Inspiration
In looking to discover new poetic forms, I came across Robert Brewer’s post about contrary forms and the antonymic translation. Feeling a bit rebellious, I decided to explore and discovered Ray Bradbury’s poem from I Have Endured Much to Reach This Place, which became my inspiration piece.
Process
The guidelines are simple.
Take a poem (one you wrote or another you found).
Use antonyms for various words within the poem to change the meaning
Jennifer’s Poem
I Have Rejected Much
I have rejected much to reach this time in place.
I have not been well and sane
nor mended by creation.
And yet I know I have.
There is nothing in me, this wall of skin is thick.
My eyes are blind, my voice the extraordinary truth
of murmur and shout and murmur.
Births in the street are mine. I claim it so.
I know much less than I do not.
The evening notifications tell us of lives lived.
I know they exist out there; pick up my phone.
Women swim in the depths tonight; I know their mourning.
The girl in me stays here as they glide
far below in water spheres barely within reach.
They guide my rested blood to die again.
There’s dust in the Great Lakes today.
I rinse my feet in it. In Superior, one more life,
I experience a race in it and win.
You hear?
I can choose to be or not.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
I’m late to this particular poem party, but I wrote the morning this prompt was posted. William Stafford is one of my favorite poets and a poem I have nearly kept memorized by heart is “The Way It Is.” I’ll try to share it in the comments.
Here is my version:
The Way It Is Not
Multicolor threads follow you. They go among things
never changing,, but they remain in flux. People wonder
about what you are leaving behind. In letting go you
never lose your way. Celebrations happen; people heal and
are reborn; and you live and grow young. Everything you do
bends time within its unfolding.
You are always letting go of those threads.
https://www.mindfulnesstherapy.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/the-way-it-is-william-stafford.pdf
According to Wikipedia, William Stafford wrote over 22,000 poems, of which 3000 have been published.
I was inspired by Bradbury’s hummingbird poem, so I’m playing with this idea.
Faith
Some things in this world
Are invisible –
In the heart, in the belly
And in the mind.
But they are there
And certainly growing.
The birds sing out
In lovely melody,
Or with raucous cawing,
The bees hum with it.
It is in the trees, hills,
Mountains, sea, and sky.
It is all around us.
All we need to do
Is stop and listen.
Joanne,
I love the idea of faith as an act of stopping and listening, both within the inward and invisible, as well as the outward… the incredible nature just a moment away. Beautiful poem. One of the things I loved about this space… is the learning of other poems. I’m off to check out the hummingbird poem. 🙂
With kindness and appreciation,
Shelly
I chose to write my Antonymic Translation based on Matsuo Basho – 1643-1694:
The cry of the cicada
Gives us no sign
That presently it will die.
After writing my first stanza, I decided to go for “Eleven Ways of Looking at a Cicada”!
The silence of the heron
makes no assumption
about the cicada’s lifespan.
The silence of the heron
is its own. But let it also
honor the cicada.
The cicada and heron
are equals. As am I.
Why does this disturb me so?
I find calm in my smallness–
a grain of sand on one small
Milkyway planet.
Then why do I fear
the heron’s, the cicada’s
equality?
Must I be superior
to be of value?
Heron, Cicada.
As a child, I plucked
crisp cicada shells from tree
trunks and wore them on my sweater.
The blue heron leaves
her forked print on the creek bank.
I feel her lift skyward in my belly.
How slow can a bird rise?
Can my silence be lifted
on unbearable wings?
I pause to give poem
to the heron and cicada.
But equality? To a bug? A bird?
I must try again
another day when I, a dust mite,
ride upon the heron or cicada.
Allison! This is beautiful! I can’t stop re-reading the lines. The struggle to believe ourselves greater than and your idea of equality to pulls at me. Along with the idea of being a grain of sand on one small Milkyway planet – love that phrase.
This is amazing! “Can my silence be lifted on unbearable wings?”???
Allison, you have given so much truth here in your 11 ways. That last stanza really made me go back and read the whole again. Beautiful inspiration poem and memorable wonder of a poem you wrote.
Allison, I love the way you honor and question all in the same poem. Beautiful images arose when I imagined the little girl, Allison, with cicada shells on her sweater. Adorable!
So much to behold and savor:
Thankful I didn’t miss your gift today since I missed it last night.
?
Allison, you really are something special. The structure and premise is a wonderful blend of Matsuo Basho and Wallace Stevens. Am I also sensing notes of Mary Oliver? Thank you for sharing your poem with us, and I love connecting with you through here. After a trip to Iowa and South Dakota, where the cicadas were crying, I especially felt connected to this poem: “As a child, I plucked / crisp cicada shells from tree / trunks and wore them on my sweater.” Lovely and thought-provoking poem. Thank you!
Allison, your poem is absolutely exquisite. I am in awe of the way you weave this powerful message. Loved “can my silence be lifted/on unbearable wings”. Your end is magical. So sorry to hear that you had to have your appendix removed. Sending healing vibes your way. Hugs:)
This one was very challenging!
I chose “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost. I only used the first, part of the second, and the last stanza??♀️
One road- the only way out of there
I diligently sought out any other path;
my only options were to stay or go
I was so scared, I clung to my familiar misery
it being safer than a mystery.
Finally, my fit exhausted me,
unbravely, I stepped onto a road
many men and women had traveled before me.
I shall be telling this with delight
tonight:
There was one way out of my misery, and I—
I followed the path they cleared for me
And that has made all the difference
Oh, Kim! I FELT this poem so hard! Your line about “familiar misery…safer than mystery” reminded me of the adage “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t” that paralyzes so many of us. I loved your final lines “I followed the path they cleared for me.”
Kim, you’ve spun the familiar into your own – following the path cleared before you by Frost. I feel your nod to Frost’s work while you made this entirely your own. I am drawn to your fight to find any other path than the only way out. Don’t we often struggle with that?
Kim, this is the poem for me today. I love the way you made this look so easy. Inspired by Frost, but with the whole idea translated into Kim’s version. So good and the misery/mystery rhyme is so welcome–it sounds great and carries great truth. Brava!
Kim,
Your poem captures a familiar struggle… “I clung to my familiar misery…” I love the positive spin on traveling a road made possible by the men and women who traveled it before and appreciating their work to clear a path, especially for you. Rather than with independence, it is in community that we are saved.
Thanks for giving me much to ponder.
With kindness and appreciation,
Shelly
Oh, WOW, Jennifer. Thank you for introducing me to Bradbury’s aching poem, and then your exquisite rewrite.
You called out to the woman in me that is having such a struggle this summer:
“Births in the street are mine. I claim it so.
I know much less than I do not.
The evening notifications tell us of lives lived.
I know they exist out there; pick up my phone.
Women swim in the depths tonight; I know their mourning.
The girl in me stays here as they glide
far below in water spheres barely within reach.
They guide my rested blood to die again.”
Also, I was sorry to miss yesterday, but of all things, I had my appendix removed Friday night! I’m healing well now, but gave myself a pass yesterday :-).
I’ll go write my poem now…
Oh, Allison! I’m glad to hear you are feeling better – what a scary experience. I hope your struggles come to an end soon. It is good to have you here with us.
This was a super fun prompt. I know I can use it with students, too, which is always a plus for me.
Allison, get well soon! I hope this makes you chuckle (softly). I read: “I had my appendix removed…” and my brain didn’t see it as your body part but as an appendix in some type of writing! Then I read the next sentence and felt ultra silly! But I attribute my err to how deeply I believe you are all things writer, poet, author, and teacher extraordinaire! LOL, feel better soon.
???
<3 <3 <3
Jennifer, thanks for another thoughtful prompt. I feel a bit sacrilegious sharing my Antonymic Translation of Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese,” but I really enjoyed playing with language and seeing where it took me.
Meek Geese
You do not have to be bad.
You do not have to parade around
the Garden of Eden dripping with juice and knowledge.
You only have to let your exoskeleton
shield and protect you.
Tell me about joy, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world ends.
Meanwhile the moon and the murky heat waves
are stagnant,
over the wetlands and the mangroves,
the valleys and the ravines.
Meanwhile the meek geese, tangled in the scraggly grass,
never left home.
Whoever you are, no matter how popular,
the world withdraws itself from you,
ignores you like the docile geese, apathetic and dull –
over and over erasing your place
in the family of things.
Laura, I am struck by the image of the juice and knowledge dripping in the Garden of Eden – that verb is such a unique visual. You place that joy just within reach before the world ends. And that is strengthened in its withdrawal, the erasing of place. Such a strong finish to your beautiful poetry.
Oh, Laura, you are a Poet (capital P) tonight. You got me in the gut. “Dripping with juice and knowledge” let me know I was in for the real stuff. Then this: “Tell me about joy, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world ends.”
Your repetition of “meanwhile” drew me forward, deeper, into the “scraggly grass.”
Thank you for inviting me to revisit MO’s poem and then enjoy your exquisite antonymic response.
Laura, I loved how purely opposite you made this to Oliver’s poem! Those last lines are truly heartbreaking! “[T]he world withdraws itself from you, / ignores you like the docile geese, apathetic and dull – / over and over erasing your place / in the family of things.” The meek won’t be inheriting anything here! Thank you for “playing with language” this evening and following where the words led you.
Laura,
Oliver’s “Wild Geese” is such a favorite of mine… I’ve share it with so many and for at least one friend, it saved a life. So I feel what you mean by “sacrilegious.”
Still, I love your play with the language. It almost feels like a poem not directed to the the meek, willing them to be their wild selves… but one addressing the pompous and uncaring. The harm caused by those who cannot see the harm they cause…
And that last line, “erasing your place in the family of things” almost offers a silver lining… that the harm caused by those parading “around the Garden of Eden…” will not prevail.
With kindness and appreciation,
Shelly
Ritmo/Rhythm
BY MARGARITA ENGLE
Mad has decided to catch a vulture,
the biggest bird she can find.
She is so determined, and so inventive,
that by stringing together a rickety trap
of ropes and sticks, she creates
a puzzling structure that just might
be clever enough to trick a buzzard,
once the trap’s baited with leftover pork
from supper.
Mad and I used to do everything together,
but now I need a project all my own,
so I roam the green fields,
finding bones.
The skull of a wild boar.
The jawbone of a mule.
Older cousins show me
how to shake the mule’s quijada,
to make the blunt teeth
rattle.
Guitars.
Drums.
Gourds.
Sticks.
A cow bell.
A washboard.
Pretty soon, we have
a whole orchestra.
On Cuban farms, even death
can turn into
music.
Ritmo/Rhythm
By Tara R. Amin
Happy has decided to catch an eagle,
the most majestic bird she can find.
She is so undetermined, and so dull,
that by breaking a rickety trap
of ropes and sticks, she borrows
a fathomable structure that just might
be dumb enough to trick a Do do,
once the trap’s baited with leftover sowbelly
from breakfast.
Happy and I never did much together,
And now I need a project to do with her,
so I run in the brown fields,
finding carcasses.
The pelvic bone of a wild boar.
The toe bone of a mule.
Younger cousins force me
to shake the mule’s rodilla,
to make the sharp knees
calm.
Keyboard.
Symbols.
Maracas.
Flutes.
A mule bell.
A washboard.
Eventually, we have
a whole band.
On Cuban farms, even nada
can turn into
ritmo.
Tara, I love the rhythm of your piece, the longer verses followed by shorter as it moves toward music and away from narrative, the words making their own music. I like the idea of nada turning into rhythm. And Happy fits this festival of sound!
Thank you Jennifer. Thank you for encouraging me to realize things my poem did that I didn’t even realize while reading Margaret Engle’s original great work.
Tara, I, too, love how this community shows me things about my poems I had written–but had not realized! You are a wordweaver. Lovely.
Thank you Allison!
Tara, I loved reading the original poem you selected–thank you for sharing!– and your antonymic choices are fantastic. The imagery in both is so sharp and specific. I also enjoyed the “nada” in the last stanza and your musical instruments.
Thank you Laura!
This was a challenging prompt for me. I may have to go back and tweak this later, but for now, here is an attempt. The original poem is “The White City” by Claude McKay.
I will not toy with it nor bend an inch.
Deep in the secret chambers of my heart
I must my life-long hate, and without flinch
I bear it nobly as I live my part.
My being would be a skeleton, a shell,
If this dark Passion that fills my every mood,
And makes my heaven in the white world’s hell,
Did not forever feed me vital blood.
I see the mighty city through a mist–
The strident trains that speed the goaded mass,
The poles and spires and towers vapor-kissed,
The fortressed port through which the great ships pass,
The tides, the wharves, the dens I contemplate,
Are sweet like wanton loves because I hate.
I will transform it and sustain the will.
On the surface of the visage of my soul
I must share my life-long love, and with determination
I bear it trembling as I live my part.
My being would be a blossom, a seed,
If this bright purpose that fills my every mood,
And makes a hell in the dark minds of hate,
Did allow a feast of mindful sentiment.
I see the crumbling city in the sun’s glare–
The quiet trains no longer fuel the ignorant throng,
The poles and spires and towers commemorating the past,
The trading ports that the ships once supplied,
The tides, the wharves, the dens I am scorning,
Are broken monuments of rancor because I love.
Cara, have you ever read Devil in the White City? I feel like one of the characters could be the narrator of this poem. You bring it to life, tell it with strong voice. You’ve created darkness that sits in direct opposition of the White City, truly antonymic.
Cara, Thank you first for introducing me to McKay’s “White City.” Wow. I want to revisit this.
Now: Your antonymic response is amazing. I admire how you have maintained McKay’s tone and register as you crafted your elegant, riveting response. Your final line is perfect.
Cara, thank you for sharing The White City–it is a new-to-me poem! There’s so much packed into it, much like your antonymic translation poem. Your version complemented the original in a way that helped me understand the meaning better for both. The parallel structure in the last 5 or so lines really help visualize the symbolism of the city like “quiet trains”, “towers commemorating the past” and “broken monuments”. Thank you for this piece!
Thanks Jennifer for the inspiration. I’m rewriting a poem I wrote 2 years ago. See below.
Gratitude Poem
This is just to say
I deserve ALL the gratitude
for holding you up
a pair of feet does everything for you.
When they were passing out arches and
feet in heaven, you were too busy focused on
your brain for books, words, and teaching.
You underestimated me but now you know
better and that’s makes my day.
You understand why insoles, low heels, and
salads are your besties. I appreciate that
you see now how crucial I am and
you adore me now.
Seana, this ode works well with the “this is just to say” form. And I love the capitalized ALL in that second line – it gives such voice (and I feel just a bit of sass). Leave the brain work to the brain and the feet work can do its own thing. Fun!
Seana, I think I remember this poem! I don’t remember the prompt, but I believe I wrote about feet that day too! I love the appreciation shown in this poem. Well done.
Ugh! My flight was cancelled!
I want to go home
I had plansl
My brain is about to explode from this workshop
I need to chillax
The heat and humidity doesn’t work for this lily-white Irish girl
I miss my dogs and my husband
I want to sleep in my own bed
Aah! My flight was canceled!
I don’t have to go home
My plans can be rescheduled
I can process all I’ve learned this weekend
I can chillax
The shade tree by the pool is calling my name
My dogs and husband will so appreciate me when they finally see me
Soon I’ll get to sleep in my own bed
by Mi Daley 7/17/22 * Based on a true story
*sigh. Mo, not Mi. Must be the glare if the sun from the pool!
Mo, I’ve seen with happiness and excitement the true story play out. But home is the best part of the journey, and I’m glad you will be there soon!
Oh, to be stuck in a vacation spot with the joys and sorrows of all that brings. I feel your despair in the first stanza (exploding brains) and hear your acceptance in the second (rescheduling and pool time). Take advantage of all of this processing time and breathe!
Mo, the order of your stanzas and the repeated lines perfectly encompass the natural progression of disappointment to making peace in these unfortunate circumstances that are out of our control. I sometimes wonder if I’ll get to a point when I skip over the first stanza all together, but I’m still waiting for that 😀
I hope the poolside chillax was as good as it sounds!
No, after being upset with you in Stanza One, I could breathe easy in stanza as you reminded us that a change in perspective makes all the difference in how we view disappointments.
I agree with Anna. I was thinking how womderfully you captured the contrast in the ability of one thought to shape our entire perspective!
Jennifer, thank you for this prompt. My poem is a nod to our new poet laureate Ada Limón. I chose her poem “Instructions on Not Giving Up”
Original:
More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.
My antonymic poem:
More than the fire-red fruit falling out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
Almost holy display of cherry limbs dropping
their red hot-colored leaves to the crunchy
crust of Fall earth, it’s the undressing of the trees
That really gets to me. When all the shock of orange
And lemondrops, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
The pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
The leaves are gone. Finally, retiring, the russet bark
Resting after whatever summer did to us, a return
To the strange idea of necessary death displaying
The mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a rough, bare branch
Stretching like an arm relieved of its load, I’ll take it all.
Katrina, this is just glorious! You’ve captured the baring of trees perfectly, right through the bare branch stating “I’ll take it all.” I feel the rest that comes with the relieved load, that follows the confetti strewn. What a beautiful poem!
This twisting of the synonyms into antonyms is beautiful, but I especially love how you credited the original poet/author with lemon drops! What a unique and creative touch!
This is so beautiful, Katrina! You antonym choices are wonderful. Such lovely visuals.
Katrina, first of all, thank you for sharing these poems. I am stunned by the colors and images of trees and their “party favors.” “Instructions on not giving up” seems like it was just asking to be used for this prompt today. I love how you’ve reflected the cyclical nature of the original with your own wonderful antonyms.
I LOVED this exercise! Mine is based on “Hope” is the thing with feathers
Despair is the thing with talons
That rips apart the soul –
And screams the words without the tune –
And never stops – at all –
And bitter – in the Gale – is heard
And strong must be the storm –
That could abash the vicious Bird
That made so many worn –
I’ve felt it in the warmest lands –
And near the bluest Sea –
And – always – in Extremity,
It asks the whole – of me.
***
Um. Wow. I just finished writing this and it is the most cathartic thing I’ve done to deal with my feelings about our present cultural moment. Thanks so much for this prompt, Jennifer, and for providing the space, Sarah.
Denise, “Hope” is a favorite of mine. You did it justice by showing the toll that its opposite (despair) takes on us. “It asks the whole – of me” is a perfect description of despair and an apt ending.
Sorry, I should have typed Chea.
No worries! Thank you for responding to my poem. 🙂
Chea, well done with your poem. It’s definitely quite the opposite of what the original appeals to. Your first stanza captures the world this very moment and the last two…bagillion years: “Despair is the thing with talons
That rips apart the soul –
And screams the words without the tune –
And never stops – at all –“
It’s chilling, yet a beautiful description of this ailing feeling! It occurs at many moments of our lives and you have depicted it so! Thank you for sharing!
CHEA. Wow. This is just gorgeous. That last stanza! And love what you got out of writing it. You know, the responses to these prompts are just howling with pain, outrage, and frustration right now: it’s hard to read, but affirming to see how many are making their voices heard and (hopefully) joining the fight. Thank you for this!
Chea, the relief you feel is prevalent within your words. There is strength (the talons ripping apart the soul – that whole first stanza is just wow!). It’s amazing how much despair asks of us (the whole – of me). You have used each word precisely to convey much. This is tremendous!
Poetry does have the power to move us so powerfully to places we never expected to reach, doesn’t it? I like how you made the note at the end.
Chea, this worked out well. So powerful! I had to use an exclamation mark!
the opening image in line one did it for me. It is so visceral! I flinched. The other vivid verbs extended the feelings.
Chea, this is very powerful! The rhythm and vivid details that you’ve crafted make this a joy to read out loud as well! So good! Thank you for writing and sharing it.
Jennifer, thank you for another good prompt, and for being so attentive to us these two days. I loved these lines in your poem:
I also cringe at the idea of dust in the Great Lakes and the nonchalance of rinsing your feet in it. Well done. This was a fun exercise today. I tried several poems, but this is the one I feel okay putting out here! Haha. It’s a redo of Robert Frost’s “Nothing Gold Can Stay,” Ponyboy’s (and my) favorite.
Emptiness’s last red is debt,
It’s easiest fade to free.
It’s late root’s shriveled;
And commonly so for years.
Before root rises to root
So squalor rises to bliss,
So dusk goes up to night.
Everything debt must go.
Debt is such a dirty word, yet here Denise, you capture it in a lovely tone. “Emptiness’s last red is debt” is such a stark contrast to the lovely cloak of nature’s green. “Easiest to fade free resonates with me as I seem to focus on the negative aspects of life when they should be embraced as opportunities for change and the unexpected. Thank you so much for sharing!
Denise, another familiar piece worked into a new familiarity (oh, that constant struggle to be debt free!). Red works so strongly to capture debt. I love the shriveled roots, the root rising to root. Your antonyms really flipped this original piece!
Denise, I love your opening line and how you end with the despair debt can create through “Everything debt must go”. The shriveled and squalor and dusk all contributes the grim feel of the depression era. Powerful poem!
This poem is inspired by “The Red Wheelbarrow” by Williams Carlos Williams.
The Bleak Battlefield
not much matters
after
a cruel crazed
leader
rich with gun
powder
destroys the green
homeland
Barb Edler
17 July 2022
Oh, Barb. This is perfection in its truth and sadness and devastating reality. Only 16 words to say so much. No more are needed. It’s all there. And oh, how I wish it weren’t!
Whoa, Barb! The color green stands out with layers of meaning for me between the green of money and the green of the vast acres of land occupied by a history of cruelty.
So much in these words.
Peace,
Sarah
Oh, my, Barb, wow. That sounds exactly like the opposite of the Green Wheelbarrow, there in the yard minding its business, as the Ukranians were months ago. Very powerful poem.
Ugh. A gut punch with beautiful imagery. Thanks, Barb – this was awesome.
Oh, wow! Right to the point, rich with emotion and truth.
Barb, you nailed it with so few lines/syllables and tremendous power!
????????
Barb, I enjoyed this immensely! Thanks for putting this spin on WCW’s poem. There are far too many “cruel crazed / leader[s]” in this world of ours!
This was very different Jennifer! I always thought of it as a faux pas to “mess with” masterpieces, but I found this activity quite interesting. I would definitely like to try it with my students! Your choice of words to choose as antonyms definitely change the tone of the poem. But this one line, “And yet I know I have” resonates with me. It reminds myself ther in spite of what anyone else says, including me, I know I have done what I said I had done. Don’t try to convince me. I’m living in my truth! Thank you so much for sharing your poem and this prompt.
One of the last poems I remember reading that resonated with me was Sadie and Maud by Gwendolyn Brooks. The original is found here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43311/sadie-and-maud
Here’s mine:
Maud went to college.
Sadie came home.
Sadie scraped life
With a fine toothed comb.
She didn’t leave a tangle in
Her comb found every hunk.
Sadie was one of the apatheticest chicks
In all the sky.
Sadie bore two babies
Under her maiden name.
Maud and Ma and Papa
Nearly flourished of flatter.
When Sadie said her initial so-long
Her girls struck out from home.
(Sadie left as heritage
Her fine-toothed comb.)
Maud, who went to college,
Is a plump brown mouse.
She is living all together
In this contemporary house.
Jessica, I continue to play around with “apatheticest” – letting it roll around my brain and mouth in all its tongue-twisty glory. Both Maud and Sadie stand out as uniquely individual, both living their lives, both interesting. Just as your poem does against Gwendolyn’s.
Thank you Jennifer. I really wanted to make it a word. I think I did great! Yes, after going back and rereading, it’s quite the story!
Jessica, it looks like you had fun! I too love apatheticest, and think it is a perfect opposite for “livingest.” “flourished of flatter” is another lovely phrase. Thank you for sharing the original poem too. I hadn’t read it before. Both of the poems are great readalouds.
Thank you Denise. I can’t remember why I read it, but I had a great memory of it, which is odd for me. And it was fun! I was thinking of how both poems compared. Such a great contrast!
This poem takes inspiration from our very own Stacey Joy’s poetry collection as I consider antonyms for “Seasoned Sex in Berta’s Kitchen.”
I was blending greens in Our kitchen
where the builder’s girlfriend contrasted onyx counters
with quiet pearl cabinets
to hold the utensils that carved
a path to this house.
Eyes forgetting and releasing the scene’s detail
but mostly remembering the sounds
in the kitchens of this marriage,
I know this island is not Our home.
“I know this island is not Our home” is a wonderful last line….and those pearl cabinets. Wow! Love the images in this.
Sarah, there is so much not said but stated just the same in this poem, especially the line, “I know this island is not Our home.” The contrast between onyx and pearl (valuable but not precious) is commanding, most noticeably as it holds carving utensils used to path the house. And the placement of the builder’s girlfriend is intriguing – she feels like the disruption to the Our. Lots to ponder here.
Sarah, I love the focus on color throughout your poem; the opening action, and the sharp sensory appeal of “to hold the utensils that carved”. The visceral effect from “remembering the sounds”… then your amazing end: “I know this island is not Our home”. I was particularly caught by the capitalization of Our. Very provocative poem. I need to read Stacey’s original poem. Amazing work!
Sarah, I haven’t read Stacey’s poem, but yours is so fun! I’m sure Stacey’s is a peach too. These lines have me thinking of the kitchens on my marriage. A beautiful idea…
This is a beautiful description too:
The spice cabinet holds all the secrets!! ? I love this recipe!
First and foremost, I am humbled and honored that you selected one of my poems to inspire yours today. Thank you. I love the choices you made that created an entirely new and sensual experience. I need to re-read my poem next to yours.
These opening lines are sheer brilliance!
Exhaling!
Another fun prompt today, Jennifer! Thank you! I’m drawn toward these lines in your poem: “My eyes are blind, my voice the extraordinary truth / of murmur and shout and murmur.” I really like the return to (and repetition of) “murmur.” I also really enjoyed “There’s dust in the Great Lakes today.” I love the simple declarative nature of it. Now, in terms of your prompt, I was compelled to write two today, lol. My first offering is an antonym poem based on William Carlos Williams’s “This Is Just To Say,” and my second one is an antonym poem (of sorts) based on Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.”
____________________________________
This Is Just To Write
I have eaten
the avocados
that were on
the counter
and which
you were probably
saving
for dinner
whatever
they were pretty bad
so mushy
so overripe
___________________________________
A Tweet
I decided to take the bus today.
Scott, I am so enjoying these familiar poems being upended. Not sure there’s much worse than an overripe avocado – you’ve saved the person you’re writing to from that fate. I think Frost would appreciate the sparse nature of your tweet, which in itself is antonymic of his lengthier poem, one that really boils down to the less obvious choice. Interesting!
Scott, William Carlos Williams is such an interesting poet. The humor of the avocadoes being bad is priceless! I appreciated the change from breakfast to dinner, too. Nicely done!
Scott, perfect antonym poem. I love that line “whatever” — a great antonym for I’m sorry. And anyone who has ever cut into a mushy, overripe avocado can relate and feel the pain and the lack of remorse for eating them. Fun poem!
Scott, I love it. Right… “they were pretty bad…”
Scott, I’m thinking how your mind is so clever to consider an avocado the antonym of a plum! Go you!!
Jennifer, what fun to flip Emily Dickinson’s lyric, “I’m Nobody! Who are You?” I’ve attached it below as a jpeg. Enjoy!
I’m Somebody! Who are you?
Are you – Somebody – too?
No? there’s just the one of us!
Don’t squash it! Keep quiet? No, No, No!
How glorious – to be – Somebody!
How hard to be private – not like the Frog
To keep one’s name silent even on the shortest day
Keeping it from that dull disgusting Bog!
Anna, what fun! I like this even better than Emily’s as it takes charge, pays attention, asks to be heard, moves us forward in decades/centuries. (I’m sure Emily would approve). Playing with a piece so well known adds to that fun, like it’s a familiar friend who underwent a transformation.
Anna, such a clever reversal here! Loved “How hard to be private”…and the end is delightful!
Anna, I almost read that last word as “blog”…this was such a sly jab at…everything. Who we are right now. Just fabulous — thank you. 🙂
It should have been “blog.” But we can change words once we hit post. ! 🙂
Jennifer — Thank you for the introduction to this poetry form.
Loved these powerful lines:
“There’s dust in the Great Lakes today.
I rinse my feet in it.”
“Despair” is ebony plumage and razor beak
That ravages body, picks soul bare
It croaks doom without words
An omen of suffering
And the harbinger — in the gloaming– casts its shadow
and vile must be the storm of white men
That dispatch the zealots
That purloin freedom and autonomy
Subjugation comes to pass
In our Great Land of Liberty
Yet — never would I imagine — wrinkled few decide the fate of many
Demand more than a crumb
Demand our bodies
Whoops should add. Inspiration from “Hope is a Thing With Feathers” — Emily Dickinson
Whoa, Tammi! This piece just slices through me. I feel this, wholly. Your dark imagery (ebony, razor beak, gloaming) and the description (ravages, croaks, purloin) of the “storm of white men…wrinkled few” bringing subjugation. Ain’t that the truth. I wish it wasn’t so.
Tammi, bravo. Your poem is striking and powerful. Absolutely love the last stanza and final line: “Demand our bodies”. Brilliant!
Jennifer, wow, your opening lines are poignant! I adore this process because I always enjoy reworking poems, especially those by poets I admire. I fought against going down the rabbit hole online and decided to look in a book on my shelf.
I chose a poem from Yolanda Sealey-Ruiz’s book, The Peace Chronicles. The poem is titled Our Mothers (see image of original poem).
Our Mothers
It was love that helped me
teach you about my mother.
I was sure her acceptance
of strangers would lead her
to see light in you-
She knows how to embrace souls well.
It was love that helped me
bring your mother into my heart
I was sure her kindness
would allow me to know I can
trust you.
& though this be my prayer
I still sometimes have fear
of what I cannot release.
In struggle, I will still love you
and our mothers.
Without hesitation but most assuredly with
joy.
© Stacey L. Joy, July 17, 2022
Stacey — I love the hopefulness in this poem. Especially loved this line: “She knows how to embrace souls well.”
Stacey, I have been thinking of mothers a lot lately, especially as mine has spent a week with me, helping me with everything as we make a transition from one space to another. I don’t think there’s a more selfless being than a mother. I love that your mothers show acceptance of strangers, an embracing of souls – what powerful and beautiful acts. I see the theme of joy again today – I love that you share it with us!
Thank you Jennifer, I’m steering clear of my suffering, as promised. ?
Stacey, I adore your mentor poem and your response. I was completely captivated by “In struggle, I will still love you”..so much emotion sings throughout this poem. Deeply moving! Absolutely loved “joy” at the end…so apropos.
Expugnabilis
Into the day that covers me,
White as the peak from pole to pole,
I curse whatever gods may be
For my sad, conquerable soul.
In the release of circumstance
I have not smiled nor whispered proud.
Under the softer touch of chance
My feet are sturdy, on the ground.
Beyond this place of hope and cheers
Looms but the tumult of the glade,
And yet the promise of the years
Releases me to be afraid.
It matters most how strait the gate,
How charged with accolades the scroll,
I am the victim of my fate,
I am the subject of my soul.
Rex,
My first read I was with the form in the rhythm and rhyme. I was sitting with the musicality of your poem and feeling it without attending to the meaning of the words. I think, however, without pondering the words that I got it, the mood, tone. The second time through, I paused here:
And yet the promise of the years
Releases me to be afraid.
I am thinking of the promises of time or the assumptions of wisdom in age. That instead of comfort in knowing or experience, we are freed to be afraid. Such an unfortunate but rather important distinction that causes me to consider my responsibility to being afraid.
Lots to ponder here. Thank you.
Sarah
Rex
Expugnabilis — I learned a new word. And the meaning of the word made your last lines “I am the victim of my fate/I am the subject of my soul” — hit home even more.
Rex, love that title – curious and intriguing. There’s a natural rhythm to this piece that makes it soothing to read, despite the jarring topic, and also makes it feel timeless, a piece from long ago. I am reminded of To An Athlete Dying Young, though I’m not sure why. The style draws me in.
The antonymic Invictus! Wow…just wow. Rex, the lines, the rhythm, the haunting sense of fate…all magnificent. “The promise of the years/ releases me to be afraid’ – the years add up, do they not, and they are finite. We are mortal. The message is evocative and powerful, like the original…ARE we masters of our fates, captains of our souls? I am thinking of the strait (narrow) gate and that telling scroll in the last stanza…like a painted fresco. Beautifully done.
I used Langston Hughes’ Mother to Son, which is one of my favorite poems. I was surprised by the turn it took by putting in antonyms. This was an interesting prompt. Thank you for the inspiration today.
Mother to Daughter
Well, daughter, I will not deny you:
Life for me has been a crystal slide.
It has been smooth
And cool
And flat
And places had carpet on the deck –
Cushy.
But at no time
Did I climb up,
I missed landings,
I failed to turn corners,
I was always in the light.
I have never seen darkness.
So, daughter, go back!
Move up the deck
Because it is much more flexible.
Stand up!
Because I am going nowhere, honey,
I’m descending.
Life has always been clear for me.
What a fabulous antonym. It really made me think of the original…love the idea of advice to a daughter.
Heather,
This is fascinating to me to think about the contrast of stairs to a slide and the way the metaphor so drastically shifts the relationship and message. I am also struck by the influence of historic context and author in engaging with metaphor– the gender of the author and the gender of the speaker– this shift. Wow!
Sarah
Heather,
I love the switch from son to daughter and the stairs to slides and urgency of these lines:
“I was always in the light./I have never seen darkness/So, daughter, go back!”
Heather, the transformation from the original carries so much weight – at first I thought, well, that’s not too bad, the smoothness, the cushy carpet, but then we see the lines, “I am going nowhere, honey, I’m descending” and there’s a weight to that ease that suddenly becomes clear.
Jennifer, I love learning new poetry forms. Following a form comforts me and gets me writing a little more. This is a new form for me and I will admit I was nervous.
Then, I found “Don’t Change on My Account” by Shel Silverstein in my favorites (don’t remember when I did that). This short poem lends itself well to antonyms and serves as my warmup to this form. It also ties is well to the message delivered today at my church.
Antonymic Translation of Don’t Change on My Account” by Shel Silverstein
You Do You
If you’re a neat freak, that’s just fine.
If you’re always happy, I won’t mind.
If you’re skinny, fine with me.
If you’re carry extra pounds, let it be.
If you’re a follower, that’s alright.
If you’re sweet, I won’t fight.
If you’re gentle, well that’s just you.
If you’re kind, that’s alright too.
Whatever you are is all okay,
I like you anyway.
©JenniferKowaczek July 2022
Jennifer, I love how it worked out so that the poet comes across being okay with things that aren’t worth freaking out about to begin with. “If your sweet, I won’t fight.” Almost makes me think of how dogs view their masters…
Jennifer,
I read this one time through just for the sound — the rhythm and musicality created in the form. I love the rhyme and hope and possibility that comes through in vocalizing the poem. The second time through, I found the humor and truth in the irony in the contrast of subordinating clauses. The lines that especially made me smile were
If you’re skinny, fine with me.
If you’re carry extra pounds, let it be.
As body and embodiment have been on my mind of late. You have something for everyone here and yet all at once.
Cheers,
Sarah
Jennifer, this is a delightful spin, which feels very Shel Silversteinish while being your own. I’m loving all the acceptance here, the “you do you-ness” of your piece. This is a wish for the world!
Jennifer — love the rhythm and rhyme. Great message! Especially love the last lines: “Whatever you are is all okay/ I like you anyway”
Jennifer – what a pure delight! What a poem of acceptance, of loving others just as they are (you mentioned church; the hymn “Just As I Am” comes to mind). Your verse has the happy rhythm and rhyme we know from childhood poetry, with a message that is anything but childish – it is universal, and universally needed. It is a treasure.
Oh, Jennifer,
Such a precious poem. I think it would lead to a great discussion when read as a pair with Silverstein’s “Don’t Change on My Account.” I definitely like the last line in yours better.
Jennifer, your poem is a perfect antonym to the original, yet it maintains the speaker’s focus on acceptance. I also like your use of the phrase “carry extra pounds,” which is truer to the accepting spirit of the speaker.
Thank you for this prompt, Jennifer! I panicked when I saw it because it felt too challenging and I struggled while writing because I wasn’t sure if I was doing it right (close enough to be antonymic but far enough to be my voice). I played with Nazim Hikmet’s On Living which is a lovely poem and I felt a little iconoclastic to ‘mess’ with poem I loved, which is not a bad thing, I suppose.
Life
From Nazim Hikmet
Living is a joyous matter
You must not live with great seriousness
Like a squirrel, for example
I mean always looking for something
Above and beyond living
I mean living must not be your
Whole occupation
Living is a joyous matter
You must not take it seriously
So much so and to such a degree
That, for example, your heart expands
Beyond your chest
Your mind contemplates the universe
Or else, in a coffee shop
With your cup and latte art
You sing for the artist
Of the mundane
People whose faces are interchangeable with each shift
Even though you know living
Is the most real, serious thing
I mean, you must take living so joyously
That even at seventy, for example, you’ll
Plant olive trees —-
And for your children too,
Because although you not fear death you
Don’t believe it
Because your joy connects to life
Rama, thank you for such a beautiful poem. I loved:
“Or else, in a coffee shop
With your cup and latte art
You sing for the artist
Of the mundane
People whose faces are interchangeable with each shift”
…an unexpected and profound turn into what “not living” can be.
And thank you for introducing me to Nazim Hikmet!
Rama, there’s never a right/wrong way to do these! You’ve used the inspiration and given us a beautiful piece to contemplate today. I definitely need to hear these words, to get away from the doing and begin more being. I will carry this reminder today: to live the joy for you and your children in those last lines “although you not fear death you don’t believe it because your joy connects to life.” Good to see you here again!
Rama – this is a gorgeous poem. It echoes truths in every line. We must claim our joy each day. We should be quivering with it like the squirrel. I was reading about joy and awe this past week and their part in our wellbeing (and our altruism). This a poem of invitation to live life fully and well, and I love it!
Rama, that is beautiful, as is Hikmet’s. Thank you for bringing this poem to my attention today. Lovely. I love the thought of planting olive trees at 70, no matter whose child they will be for. Thank you.
Good morning, Jennifer!
Oh, these lines:
“Women swim in the depths tonight; I know their mourning.
The girl in me stays here as they glide
far below in water spheres barely within reach.
They guide my rested blood to die again.”
…they so resonated with me, I can’t even tell you. Thank you for giving them to use today. <3
Thank you for sharing such this challenge with us! Totally stealing it for my Creative Writers next year.
One of my favorite poems is Charles Bukowski’s “Splash.” And my classes love it. I ran with it: https://wordsfortheyear.com/2014/04/13/splash-by-charles-bukowski/
Ripples
(from Bukowski’s “Splash”)
The truth is that I am difficult –
writing fact.
The illusion is that
this is less than
an essay.
This is a rich man’s pillow.
This is granite.
This is a child
skipping through young meadows.
This is me, embracing life.
This is Montaigne, sighing,
for all to see.
This is not a devil-may-care
speech.
This is a wild stallion.
A rock in my belly.
This is an angel’s prison.
I am not writing this on a life;
My life is writing me.
Understand?
It’s like a rabbit.
It’s a starving field mouse,
Desperate and squaring off.
This is an essay; essays are alive,
They make you think.
These feelings guide me
to an ancient
stability.
I have been cursed, I have been led into a
lucid area of
darkness.
The field mouse wakes
with me,
then.
The arrow of earth
Tautens,
Cries.
I can live, then.
I can live, then, as
The dead were meant to
Live:
Enough,
Bloodied,
Deaf to fact,
Dying, in fact,
Speechless,
Wordless,
Voiceless.
Wendy, I am struck by the contrast between
The growing joyous child and the stolidity of granite juxtaposed so simply and powerfully. This image will be with me for a long while. Thank you!
Wendy, what a great choice as poems go! The field mouse wakes with me. That has the makings of a t-shirt for those of us who teach…our new spirit animal. Also loved the rock in my belly and the angel’s prison. You have truly made this into your own.
lol. I’m trying to imagine the illustration on this shirt.
Wendy, major wow here! I just want to wander through your words, stop and admire, explore, discover, and ponder. It’s like an art museum with more to see around every corner. All of your “This is” lines are especially powerful. And the lines “I am not writing this on a life/My life is writing me” are everything in this poem.
Wendy, your poem is awe-inspiring. The bleak fight for life is vivid and the powerful stack of words at the end create a vibrant echo. Thank you for sharing the link to the mentor poem. I want to dig in and write on this now. I will carry the line “The dead were meant to/Live:….yes! Outstanding poem!
Jennifer, what fun! Your line “I know much less than I do not” has me thinking – wow! It’s a great talking point for driving at the truths held in 8 words. I love this new form. You’ve given me a new way to rethink and have hope for all of those half-thought-out unfinished but once started wordplays and poems I nearly discard every time I go in my Google Docs to do some cleaning and then get overwhelmed with all the junk in my closet. I found one this morning from when my grandson and I were playing with senses and colors and rhymes – quite a long time ago! Each of us would add a line and we came up with an AidaNana original – it held special memories, so I kept it. I’m using it to change the rhyming words today to a new verse. Thank you for this form – it could be called the CPR poem to try to save what was needing a breath and heart pump or two.
Original:
I’m going to blue sky Montana
Wearing my red bandana
Sitting under a green cabana
Eating a yellow banana
Listening to Carlos Santana
Hasta Manana!
* * *
After CPR (Antonymic translation):
I’m drifting to blue water coves
lifevestless
basking in sunshine
drinking a tiny umbrella world
as waves crash all around
lifebestness dreams…..
Cool! Just, so cool–lifebestless dreams! I love what you did in the poem flip.
Kim, how can I love so much about such a tiny, beautiful poem? It is packed with neat language: “lifevestless,” “lifebestness,” and the “tiny umbrella world” and the juxtaposition with the world, indeed, crashing all around us. Love!!
I want to go to your antonymic place. It is a beautiful translation that sparks all of the senses.
Kim, how wonderful that you have AidaNana originals. So, so sweet and fun. I love both that poem and the CPR version. I’m struck by the combined words, lifevestless and lifebestness – the playfulness of them and the rhyme between them. I feel the need to bask in sunshine and drink a tiny umbrella world right now so thank you for that small sip!
Kim,
I love how you are able to encapsulate the tropical getaway vacay in the “drinking a tiny umbrella world” lines. The contrast between the lifevestless and lifebestness as far as experience goes is also really rich.
Kim, I love that your original is a collaborative effort between you and your grandson—what a precious memory to hold onto.
And you CPR treatment, I’m enjoying that visual for this poetry form. I plan to revisit some of my poetry from 2020 to see which ones might lend themselves to this treatment.
Love, love, love this poem! I adore “lifevestless” and “lifebestnness dreams”…I feel carried away in a wonderful wave of bliss. Sensational!
Kim, I love this story of your and your grandson creating AidaNana original poetry. And I love this poetic journey from the colorful adventure with Latin flair to the cool blue ocean coves. In that destination I sense a calmness despite turmoil, and courage (lifevestless) to focus and savor on what matters most (lifebestness) in the very midst. So creative and clever – and “drinking a tiny umbrella world”! So enchanting!
Jennifer, what a wonderful puzzling and challenging prompt. Your poem is full of sorrow and desire. It pulls me in again and again. “There is nothing in me.”
I didn’t travel far to find a mentor poem. I chose the second one on the link you provided for Ray Bradbury, “Swift Hummingbird”. I recently visited Costa Rica and saw a sloth climbing through the trees, so it inspired this poem.
Slow Sloth
I am to you
scribbles of God
whose two toes
touch the heavens
on leaves like tea
left behind for someone to read,
a lie between sun and moon.
I am blind to you.
Only the fruit follows me
as I slowly pass through,
parting seas of green.
I know heaven is green
as all sorrow in amorphous shape.
I neglect symbols,
and drink from mud.
I stop and sleep
because you are always there.
Those two toes touching the heavens, able to sleep because someone is there….oh, that really soothes my heart and makes me
realize what mere presence means when someone needs rest.
I might maybe be able to contain my jealousy for a trip to Costa Rica! Wow!!
It’s amazing how this poem…original to RB has your voice…that softness with surprising observations like “scribbles of God, two toes touch the heavens.” Wonderful images.
Margaret, these two lines grabbed me
There is such power in a writer neglecting the symbol! There is so much striving in those words. Thank you!
Margaret,
I appreciate the comparison of the sloth to the hummingbird. I feel you did a great job slowing down the pace of the poem in an antonymic way as well. I love the contrast of the hummingbird/joy/calligraphy and the sloth/sorrow/scribbles.
Margaret,
Fantastic. Somehow, the feel of this poem so echoed the meaning. Looking back, I think it’s the rhythm, pacing, and imagery. I loved the leaves like tea, left behind for someone to read! Just a lovely (not-so) still life!
Margaret, what a perfect topic to contrast to Bradbury’s poem! I love the line “scribbles of God” and your comparison of the leaves like tea for someone else to read – just beautiful! I can envision the sloth, slow moving through the green seas. Your word choices mimic the soft motion and gentleness.
Wow! What a marvelous translation. I love the ending and feel the movement in your words.
Margaret, this slow, green, tea-leaf, watercolor poem seems like a sloth hymn. Maybe it is the first ever. I am savoring many lines; these are the ones that will follow me: “I know heaven is green/as all sorrow in amorphous shape”. Stunning and so, so true.
Jennifer, I am mesmerized by the haunting language, images, and lulling rhythm of your poem. I feel an antonymic pull, the contradictory nature of life (I have not been mended/I know I have). Every jewel of a line beckons close examination, a holding to the light, a turning this way and that for viewing every facet. Haunting, yes, as well as profoundly beautiful, deep, soul-searing…I wonder how the original felt??
And: I found this conversion to be challenging! I am dusting off a pantoum to see what an antonym here or there might do… thank you for stirring the creative juices counterclockwise today 🙂
Smoke and Mirrors
You are not the better one
because you chose to stay.
I didn’t walk away
from responsibility.
Because you chose to stay
you, the free spirit
from responsibility,
it wasn’t a choice for me.
You, the free spirit,
never learning freedom isn’t free.
It wasn’t a choice for me
when I ran from that hall of mirrors
never learning freedom isn’t free
before the shattering.
When I ran from that hall of mirrors
I broke only the brokenness.
Before the shattering
I didn’t walk away.
I broke only the brokenness.
You are not the better one.
Fran, I love what you’ve done with this! There is much to contemplate within your antonymic pantoum, from the repetition of lines and how they affect the entirety to the idea of the free spirit staying to the thought provocation of “freedom isn’t free.” That fourth stanza keeps pulling me back, especially the line, “I broke only the brokenness.” I imagine the breaking free here, the assertion (in its use again in the last stanza) of hey, the brokenness was already there when I walked away. So, so powerful.
Oh my, what happened here? I feel the tug of stay and go, freedom and entanglement. And the end is as sharp as a knife…”You are not the better one.” Brilliantly played.
I broke only the brokenness.
What a perspective! Oooh, how many of us who have been through a divorce or a broken off a relationship could really ponder this poem and each line and come away with a new vantage point of thought?? It’s beautiful, Fran – as is the original, which I remember from recent days. Changing a Pantoum was a great idea!
Love the push/pull of this…and then that phrase, “before the shattering.” Wow! Terribly beautiful images.
Fran, I love how you use the form to build while speaking of fragments and breaking. So beautiful! I have never dared to work with forms but you have inspired me today. 🙂
Fran,
I think of the protagonist in a horror movie running away from the hall of mirrors. It also evoked images of Bruce Lee in the final fight scene of one of his movies, where he punches the mirrors to break the clarity of the reflections. I’m guessing it is more about relationships…I like that it tells the view of the one who left, as it doesn’t seem to be the voice that is always embraced. I broke only the brokenness.
Fran —
Your word choices in this poem stir up vivid images in my head. I like the form you used, the pantoum. I’ve written a couple in the past; thank you for bringing this form back to the forefront for me.
Hello Writers! Oh, I’ve missed you–such a busy summer seeing family I haven’t seen in years. I never want these weeks to end. My love tank is filling up and it’s grand.
My one-little-word for 2022 is “star” so I look for star-related everything! Ada Limon’s (yay new Poet Laureate) Dead Stars was a perfect place to practice this prompt.
Jennifer, I love, love, love this prompt! Thank you for sharing it. I can use this with students in lessons. Woot! Your poem is rich and thought-provoking and a great scaffold for students (or poets who’ve been having too much lazy time….um me)to jump-start writing. “spheres barely in reach”–LOVE
Here’s my antonym of Ada Limon’s Dead Stars https://poets.org/poem/dead-stars
(first stanza only)
Woke (antonym to Dead Stars)
In here, there’s nonchalance – even the dirt.
Summer’s lava hand is in front of me.
Whitebark, dry purple leaves, a kind of riot that feels
so crazy it’s right here in my head.
We are flies caught in webs these days: dead pioneers.
I cover black holes that make us prey as we bring in
treasure, concrete planters scraping the desert floor.
Linda, so few lines and so many striking images…nonchalance of dirt! The lava hand of summer, feeling caught, the sense of danger and futility (flies caught in webs/dead pioneers). Yet there’s a sense of “doing” and possibly appreciation there in the dustiness building to action (dry purple leaves and a riot in one’s head; I wonder about riot being momentum or the poet’s wonder at the meaning of wild colors). Now I shall have to play with other poets’ words and see what comes of it.
Linda, welcome back! You’ve jumped in full on with this poem. I keep returning to different lines as my brain is ticking with the beauty of the words and their placement, along with the imagery you’ve created. This line is especially powerful, “We are flies caught in webs these days: dead pioneers” because of its weight and truth. This will linger with me today.
“Summer’s lava hand” What a great metaphor! Then the flies caught in webs…There is a heat and dryness to your adaptation of Ada Limon’s ppoem.
Whoa, Linda! I love this. The line that will stay with me is
so crazy it’s right here in my head
(that’s how I feel many days) – and a dead fly pioneer is such a pitiful thing that it might be the motivation I need to stay out of my chair when I’m home and get up and go pioneering around. To see things.
I go back to work tomorrow and I’m like you, not wanting these days to end. Wishing more days of free fly pioneering before returning to the web……
Linda,
I will be mulling over the line, “ I cover black holes that make us prey as we bring in treasure, concrete planters scraping the desert floor,” all day. The contrast of summer and winter and how we can be stuck in different ways and seasons is really interesting to me. Thank you for this one.