Cacophony announcing apocalypse,
Cattle dogs hard at work for the herd.
Ground squirrel, diving for cover while
Tongues lolling, muscles quivering, they wait.
When not pronouncing the end of the world
Their worlds end,
One each pressed to my sides,
Slack abandon in sleep.
This morning I carried my phone to the couch,
Intent on that morning coffee,
My husband in my hands (my heart, my
soul) on video, pixels of love.
Colorado sunlight glinting off the screen and
BAI YI YI AOURRRRRRRR AY! AY! AY!
Pure fur, pure voice, rigid in attack
Set off by no more than a glimmer.
I look into my husband’s eyes,
Pixel to pixel,
Me muting the phone to save his ears.
Together: “They are the best bad dogs ever.”
October 4th Plath Poetry Project calendar
Sylvia Plath’s The Arrival of the Bee Box
And now for our daily prompt (optional, as always). Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on the Plath Poetry Project’s calendar. Simply pick a poem from the calendar, and then write a poem that responds or engages with your chosen Plath poem in some way.
It’s not what you think. Carrying everything between your shoulders up a violent mountain. Beginning the ascent thinking will I be able to? and taking another step. One woodpecker drills a rhythm. The creek straining out of ice bonds, pehlunking and bloop bloop blooping before running away as I switch back. My fingers peeled free, now cradling bamboo-topped sticks, warm where just hours ago were only frozen stubs. The sun arcs up over blood. Filtering light. Slumbering trees. My breath deep and quick and strong. Almost at the top and the rhododendrons intertwine glossy, cold-curved leaves until I’m cocooned in gold-green. My steps stir faint must of awakening earth. Emerging into voices, a dog barking, and an improbably solid stone shelter. I scramble up giant boulders, witness the smoky vista, see the world. Blood Mountain: most likely named for a battle between Native American tribes. Or the reddish lichen. Not for killing thru hikers.
And now for our prompt (optional, as always). Following the suggestion of our craft resource, we challenge you today to draft a prose poem in the form/style of a postcard. If you need some inspiration, why not check out some images of vintage postcards? I’m particularly fond of this one.
Four wands working magic.
Country life for us.
Outside our home,
Forests for flying.
Followed by repose, concord, harmony.
We are rich, if not in money,
Then in time, love, and
Embellished by moment
After moment, a string of nows,
Until the present glows.
Beauty and joy, our domestic harvest.
I’ve never had a reading or even looked at a Tarot card before, but I gave the prompt a try:
Tarot Card (Wands Four): From the four great staves planted in the foreground there is a great garland suspended; two female figures uplift nosegays; at their side is a bridge over a moat, leading to an old manorial house. Divinatory Meanings: They are for once almost on the surface–country life, haven of refuge, a species of domestic harvest-home, repose, concord, harmony, prosperity, peace, and the perfected work of these. Reversed: The meaning remains unaltered; it is prosperity, increase, felicity, beauty, embellishment.
And now for today’s (optional) prompt. Following Lauren Hunter’s practice of relying on tarot cards to generate ideas for poems, we challenge you to pick a card (any card) from this online guide to the tarot, and then to write a poem inspired either by the card or by the images or ideas that are associated with it.
Metallic on the tongue, first.
Instinct made moment.
Primal senses snap into focus.
He steps over a fold in time,
Brush a lost crackle under
Deafening dog din.
Wild and nature and the
I capture him.
Cool plastic in my hands, me
Breathing in earth and growth and
From my back porch perch.
Snap as he snorts.
He is mine now, forever,
As he trots into the trees.
And now for our prompt (optional as always). Taking our cue from today’s craft resource, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that includes images that engage all five senses. Try to be as concrete and exact as possible with the “feel” of what the poem invites the reader to see, smell, touch, taste and hear.