Poetry Thursday #13


This week's challenge is ekphrasis, "a literary description of or commentary on a visual work of art." The painting I have chosen for this week’s completely optional idea is "The Marriage License," painted for the June 11, 1955 Saturday Evening Post by Norman Rockwell, who did 322 covers and died in 1978. No one mastered in art the American life, events and values better than he. Now if you are an artist purist and don't think Rockwell be one, check out this painting of a bride by Domenico Ghirlandaio (15th century) and you'll see the same attention to fabrics, hair, position of the faces, locale and eyes gazing into the past.

There is nothing in this painting that isn’t absolutely authentic or essential, from the dangling light bulb repeating the shape of the upper window needed for heat or light, to the rumpled forgotten flag or bunting possibly from WWII that lays unceremoniously atop the book shelves filled with dusty legal volumes, to the bride and groom who knew this was a special occasion requiring the very best clothes. The items in the painting that are completely out-of-step with the 50s, like the stove and spittoon, are critical elements in the story it tells. We all know the hopes and dreams of that couple, because they are us in another time and place, so I've chosen to write about the civil servant slumped in his chair.

At the County Courthouse
by Norma Bruce
March 28, 2007

Dreaming of fishing again, aren't you, old man?
Your rumpled coat and hat hang near by,
just waiting for your escape.

The red geranium blooms in the open window alone,
scrawny but surviving the weather whims,
seeking light and warmth.

Now that the wife has died, the stray kitten
eyeing the cigarette litter on the floor
is your only source of joy.

Your arthritic fingers interlace, worn elbows rest
on the arms of the old wooden chair,
your bones beating the cushion down.

Ah, those weary bones, you squirm and shift,
oh, so tired. Slumped, you're forgetting
the stories, oh, the stories.

Who are these eager people, in sunny yellow cotton
and Sunday suit with hat, signing on for years
of windows, weather, and weariness?

Like the bride on tip toes and her tender groom,
we want their hope and love, so we turn away
from the old man's defeat and pessimism.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry%20Thursday
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Poetry Thursday #12


Today's challenge is: "Write a poem motivated by an image — preferably one that is in the form of a photo you can post with your poem. If you don’t have a picture of it, that’s okay. Tell us about the image in the backstory, which you can post before your poem. Or, if you’re really daring, grab your camera and get out there and capture an image and use it as motivation for a poem."

This was written some time ago. I've enjoyed pulling it out and rereading it, and didn't change a word. It was inspired by a very real yellow rose in a real garden on a July day so hot it was breathless, but with a slight breeze. The rose's participation with the two not-meant-to-be lovers, including its dried and desicated end, is all imagination. Or maybe it's a memory--like the rose, I've forgotten. Lamentations might have been a better book in which to place such a flower, but it had too many syllables. It has fabulous phrases and images of bitter tears if you ever need that for a poem. However, isn't the book of Job closer to the symbol of all that can go wrong, will?
















The last rose
by Norma Bruce
July 1997

Yellow rose in the garden
Blushed peach by her cheeks,
Splashed pale with his white passion.

Yellow rose in the sunlight
Fragrant in their hands,
Waving good-byes to July.

Yellow rose in the clippers
Snipped between kisses,
Pricking her finger crimson.

Yellow rose in the crystal
Filled with his hot tears,
Shedding thorns against the glass.

Yellow rose in the Bible
Faded summer joy,
Pressed between pages of Job.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry%20Thursday
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Poetry Thursday #11


Today's totally optional challenge is to find a word we don't know in the dictionary and write a poem using it without looking up the meaning. I think this is called the "dictionary game." I didn't choose the topic, but did use a dictionary.

Here are some e-words that can cause problems for writers. An elegy is a song of mourning or lament; a eulogy is an oration of praise; an epitaph is a phrase that appears on a grave stone; an epigraph is an engraved inscription or a quotation at the beginning of a literary work; a epithet is a disparaging word or phrase; an epilogue is the conclusion or the final chapter; an epistrophe is the repetition of a word or expression at the end of successive phrases or verses; an epode has a long verse followed by a short one; an epopee is a long poem. I checked several sources for the proper poetic form for an elegy, and the phrase "Here lies. . ." seems to be what they have in common.

I told what little I know about this baby, Alma Fay, in my Monday Memories. She was the daughter of my great grandparents born after they left Tennessee and moved to Illinois and is buried in Plain View Cemetery.

This elegy is for anyone who has lost a baby through miscarriage, abortion, adoption, or death. Maybe you have a grave to visit, maybe not. Perhaps all you have is a dim memory. But someday. . . the graves will open for the Resurrection. Reassembling dust, molecules and DNA, no matter how scattered, is no problem for the designer and creator of the universe.

Elegy for little Alma Fay, August 26, 1908 - October 3, 1908
by Norma Bruce
March 12, 2007


Here lies quietly, baby Alma Fay
with no one to remember
save one sister old and gray,
her name engraved on heart shaped stone,
among the grass and clay.

Here lies peacefully, auntie Alma Fay
with nephews, nieces, cousins,
who lived well and had their say,
a harbinger of the good life
in land so far away.

Here lies listening, precious Alma Fay,
with none left to grieve for her,
these one hundred years or pray,
but God, the Three in One, will call
on Resurrection Day.

Here rises victorious Alma Fay--
the graves are emptied at Plain View.
Praise God! she's flown away.

Poetry Thursday, elegies, Mt. Morris Illinois, gravestonesSource URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry%20Thursday
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Poetry Thursday #10


This week’s (completely and totally optional) idea is simply: Red.

I was really stumped. It's not a favorite color. The word makes me think Communist, blood, anger, flag and . . . walls. The walls of our condo when we bought it. High-end, very expensive, Architectural Digest walls. Orange dining room, brown living room and red family room--each with multiple faux glazes, each with matching ceilings. So here's some silliness; just some fun about seeing red.



Decorator Red
by Norma Bruce
March 5, 2007

"Do the walls have to be so red?"
she said.

Decorators, a team,
had a bad color scheme
a bit off the beam,
'twas sometime before
we opened the door.

They’d toned it down with faux,
a touch of gold, just so.
"Why didn’t they know
it reflected pink
in the bathroom sink?"

"The floral drapes are mauve and peach,"
she’d screech.

"Carpet is green and thick,
hearth is a reddish brick.
I just might get sick--
clashes so with red
now hurting my head."

"These walls drive me wacky,"
he mumbled, "By cracky,
Let's paint them khaki."
"Good-bye to the red,"
she agreed and said.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry%20Thursday
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Poetry Thursday #9


This week for Poetry Thursday, we are invited to write about something beautiful without using its name. This feels like it is still in draft stage--changing right up through Wednesday night.


In my unformed thoughts,
in my wildest dreams,
when this mattered
(and it doesn't so much now),
I never expected we’d meet.

You were so distant and aloof,
a prisoner of your past,
corrupt and sinful
(yet charming and alluring),
Did I even want us to meet?

Now that I’ve seen you,
heard your velvet voice,
minor and sad
(but dark eyed and lovely),
I know I’ll never forget us.

Are we allowed to leave a hint? (Очи страстные и прекрасные)Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry%20Thursday
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Poetry Thursday #8

This week's (completely and totally optional) idea for Poetry Thursday is this phrase: "the body knows." I'm submitting here a poem I wrote in January. One of the ways (other than aches and pains) that our bodies speak to us is discreetly via a mirror--maybe it's in the bathroom or a department store cubicle, or the quick glance in the rear view mirror as we travel to work, sipping the latte, skipping through and humming along with the radio.


Mirror, mirror on the wall
January 26, 2007
by Norma Bruce

You used to be my friend.
We’d hang out together
for hours of girly talk,
share secrets, giggle over
girdles and bobbi pins,
lipstick, powder and mascara.

You used to wait for me.
Chat in the dressing room,
whispering gossip
at the counter where
we’d go to order
double chocolate cherry cokes.

When did you change?
Sometimes I feel you’ve joined
the witness protection program,
embarrassed to see me.
Now you’re pious and prim--
no longer zealous for my best.

Oh, how I miss you, dear heart!
Your face isn’t clear when I squint,
your motives are obscured.
What did I do to offend?
Can’t we go back to the old days,
make silly faces and stay out late?



Here are two others I wrote this week; if you've got a moment. . .:
The vows
When you're falling in loveSource URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry%20Thursday
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Poetry Thursday #7




Truthfully, I have no idea what a prose poem is--today’s assignment for Poetry Thursday. Poetry Previews describes it: "Although the prose poem resembles a short piece of prose, its allegiance to poetry can be seen in the use of rhythms, figures of speech, rhyme, internal rhyme, assonance (repetition of similar vowel sounds), consonance (repetition of similar consonant sounds), and images."

I’ve read a lot of poems that I would rewrite as prose and think them a better use of words and sound, or prose so lovely when read aloud I’d swear there was a poet in there somewhere. So here’s the background for today's poem:

We had a mini-blizzard (really hit northwest and south of Columbus) with snow, then hours of sleet, and then more snow overnight. Most schools and many businesses closed. So going to the coffee shop Wednesday morning at 6 a.m. was a challenge just to back out of my drive-way; it was dark and cold and I had the streets to myself. I drafted this there, and rewrote and revised at home. The more I revised, the less prose-like it became. If you’re not a regular reader here, it’s just about a coffee shop on a snowy day. Now here’s the poem:

Come sit by the fire with me. Sit by the gas flames rising from fake logs. Warm us bright blaze in the dark by the pseudo-bricks as we tip Styrofoam cups with plastic lids, sip black brew browned with cream factory made. Animate brain cells, stir up stiff tongues tropical beans, red and bright when picked by dark hands, traveling on tankers guided by pale hands to bring us warmth and happy thoughts, brown after roasting in mills and bursting to dark beans, trucked by many hands along concrete interstates and asphalt by-ways to loading docks at dark coffee shops. Come sit by the fire with me in the dark, tasting warmth, watching the snow fall on icy lines--pity the bird toes--sending power to heat water piped and purified, dripping hot in the pot held by ethnic hands that fill my cup which warms my nose by the fire where we sit.

And Happy First Birthday, Poetry Thursday.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry%20Thursday
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Poetry Thursday #6




CHANGE is this week's theme in honor of PT's new website. What changes more than women's fashion? Truthfully, my style doesn't change that much, especially with no job to go to. So when I say good-bye to a favorite style or fabric, it is a sad day. Some go to my "vintage closet"--not to wear, but to look at, like a formal my mother made when I was in high school, or my mother-of-the-bride dress from 1993.

This poem is about the last pair of shoulder pads in my closet. Shoulder pads (for women) returned to fashion in the early 1980s after a hiatus of about 30 years. They started small and then became enormous, and gradually disappeared. Now we all have narrow, dainty, child-like shoulders again instead of looking like we suited up for the middle school football team or the soap opera Dynasty.


On removing shoulder pads from a favorite blouse
by Norma Bruce
Feb. 7, 2007

Others told me
(helpful friends)
someday on my own
strength
would I go
to meet the world
tall, strong, confident.

I’d waver; you were silent.

Mirrors told me
(how they lied)
only with your
help
could I climb
the ladder of
greed, success, power.

I’d arrange; you were silent.

Today told me
(glaring lights)
it was now past
time
should I cling
another minute to
padded, shaped, contoured?

Snip and toss; you were silent.


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Poetry Thursday has moved!

Here's the new site; I'll have to change my template link. So here's this week's challenge: "Given all the changes here at Poetry Thursday, we thought change would be a good topic for this week’s (completely and totally optional) idea." That's something to think about. This might be the time to post my shoulder pads poem.

All I did was attend a different church service today (we have eleven) and was amazed at the changes I saw. Not sure there's anything in that to write about, but change is always with us, isn't it? I've mentioned it before, but "change" is one of the reasons I retired at 60 instead of 65. I was so tired of the constant changes--the reporting line, the staff, the consortia, the committees, the technology. I thought there must be more to life than learning a new software gimmicks that would be gone in 6 months, or the names of student staff who would only stay a quarter. When you're young--like 18-25 or so--the changes dribble like a soft rain and you hardly notice them. Also, you tend to gloss over them thinking it (the changes) are temporary and eventually things will settle down. Doesn't happen. As you age your mind accumulates and stores all these changes and their warranties and instruction manuals are still on your shelves; they become burdensome.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry%20Thursday
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Poetry Thursday #5

Today's assignment--a poem with math terms. Plane geometry in my sophomore year in high school was the only math class I ever liked. So here's the poem.

In geometry class
by Norma Bruce
Feb. 1, 2007

You're the only one I ever loved.
Degenerate and full of sin--
your height, your legs
and references to horizontal.
I so me try.

It wasn't meant to be.
I was too square and plane--
just a double cone
melting under Golden spiral rays.
I some try.

You were one dimensional,
between radical and mean,
with just the line
to touch my obtuse midpoint--
Is o me try.

Before I go on a tangent--
Upon reflection
I no longer flip over your
face or cute little axis.
You are zero to me now.

Poetry Thursday
Poetry
American poetry
geometrySource URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry%20Thursday
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Poetry Thursday #4

Our prompt this week is "Why I love poetry." In 153 words or less. I don't have a "poetry base;" no courses, no publications. But I love it when poetry nails it. Sometimes it's only a line or a phrase, but there's a connection. An ah-ha moment. Yesterday I read a poem about an Irish WWI airman who died in Italy (Yeats). It's today's news almost 90 years ago.

This week I was reading "The Best American Poetry, 2006," guest editor, Billy Collins. On pp. 30-33, there is a poem by Amy Gerstler, "For my niece Sidney, age six." She begins with Margaret Davy in 1542 being boiled to death for poisoning her employer, an item she came across reading the 1910 Encyclopaedia Britannica. She uses it to launch a poem about what simmers in the crock-pot of her head, and moves on to speculate that her untamable, curious niece may someday like Martin Luther nail theses to a door (about which she also read that day in the encyclopedia).

I used to own 7 sets of encyclopedias. My favorite which I still enjoy browsing with a cup of coffee belonged to my grandfather--the 11th edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica published in 1910 (I also own the 12th and 13th). It's printed on tissue thin paper and bound in black leather which is crumbling a bit on the spines.

In this poem, Gerstler writes about owning 5 sets of encyclopedias. . .

"That's the way I like to start my day;
drinking hot black coffee and reading
the 1910 Encyclopedia Britannica.
Its pages are tissue thin and the covers
rub off on your hands in dirt colored
crumbs (the kind a rubber eraser
makes) but the prose voice is all knowing
and incurably sure of itself. . . "

Connect!

Poetry Thursday
Poetry
Amy Gerstler
American poetrySource URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry%20Thursday
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