D’verse – Kennings – the metaphor of Skalds – Crone

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A kenning is a very brief metaphoric phrase or compound word and it means “to know” (derived from Icelandic, but exist in many other languages like Swedish and German). It was used extensively in Old Norse (later Icelandic) and Anglo Saxon poetry as a mean of adding both colour, and better meter to the skaldic songs

You were not always heavy-handed,

I always thought you petite.

The long afternoons, spell-bound,

In each other’s presence, entranced.

What happened, innocence-laced

Girl child became repugnant crone.

You spread your poison-words

Spoiling everything you touch

Not caring, hell-bent inflicting

Pain at every opportunity.

I protect my faultless-offspring

Knowing I suffer.

Aware the knife-launch

Could be seconds away.

Once you were wide-eyed

Bushy tailed, innocuous

Witchy-ways were harmless

Now a weapon of mass-destruction.

 

Written for: http://dversepoets.com/2014/03/20/kennings-the-metaphor-of-skalds/

 

 

 

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Friday Fictioneers – Red Things

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The stairwell had long intrigued me. As a kid I used to marvel at the ornate metal work in the building my Aunty Eunice lived in.

It was one of those that went up a long way, reached a point below the roofline beside a door that led to Auntie’s attic. A room that held a treasure trove.

Aunty was a tad eccentric, she collected things. Red things.

She stored them in this little room at the top of the most impressive of stairwells.

I loved to wander in the attic, curious of the story behind each red item.

Written for: http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2014/03/19/21-march-2014/

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Haibun Thinking – Film Week – Nanna

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Golly, did I hear you say you would be free if you could?

Gussy the Goose, Charlotte’s Web (2006

Nanna lies peacefully in her bed for the last time.

She looks serene lying there. Her life coming to an end, surrounded by all of us who could make it here today. She had an inkling her end was close; she insisted her final day be spent in her favourite purple nightie. Nanna has a thing for purple.

She was a strong woman with a penchant for birds. Types of every kind littered her house, her beloved aviary now derelict, her precious goose still tall and straight.

I too am living these final moments, every laboured effort I think is her last.

I sit beside her holding her hand and in these moments remembering her stories, trips over seas, the exotic and mundane she had witnessed and her secret liaison with the Arab Sheik, she had whispered to me several days before. She wanted me to know and to settle once and for all the story of the goose she has in her living room. It was a gift from the Sheik, the last time she saw him. It was in the spring and under a tree resplendent in blossoms he had presented her with the goose, a symbol of his families standing and his esteem for her. He had kissed her that one last time and she never looked back as she knew he was gone forever.

Nanna wanted someone to know and chose me. I felt honoured, privileged and now I knew the tale, one I would pass on to my children, a memory, precious in its telling.

Now as her life ebbs from her, I feel a tear roll down my cheek, my daughter sees, puts an arm around my shoulders. Nanna breaths her last, I am still holding her hand, her suffering is over. Silence embraces us. My daughter and I embrace, she cries on my shoulder, my own tears flow with hers.

Outside a chorus of birds breaks out.

 

seasons well lived

blossoms always within her heart

one youthful life

 

Written for: http://haibunthinking.wordpress.com/2014/03/18/haibun-thinking-week-9-march-18th-2014/

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Poetics: Color me spring – Bathe my Soul

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You came into my life

So innocently, so quietly

I didn’t notice you at first

You sat to the side

You said a few things

Your watched me

You took me in.

Days go by and I watch you now

You sing magic into my days

I awake to you, sleep to you

You make me see life so differently

Days now live

Night’s dance

Vivid existence.

No longer am I monochrome

Colours ablaze, amaze me

I am never to be sated

Emblazoned on me

Rich shades of blue

The deepest purple

Wash over me.

You have bathed my soul

My heart treasures you

I am folded into every hue

Enamoured in your world

I am illuminated

Dazzled

Gratified.

Written for: http://dversepoets.com/2014/03/18/poetics/

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Poem 111 – Prattling

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Just today my dearest friend

Tells me I prattle well.

That my prattling reveals who I am,

That I should do more of it.

After all a good prattle can be very cathartic.

 

And it’s Monday, I look at the space on my page

I wonder what words might be next

Do I try to be philosophical?

Do I speak of love, hope, resolution?

 

Cause my mind wanders in circles

The same thoughts, the same place

How lucky I am in so many ways

I live in a land of milk and honey

I am loved by those who know me

I feel treasured and so fortunate to be alive right now.

 

Keep in mind I would like to write a literary piece

One that stands the test of time

Not the mindless ditties I write day to day.

Discussions of intellectual rigour.

The metaphysical, if I actually understood it.

To sit in my backyard and thereby

Write my observations of nature

The eco system I live within.

Emulating previous ‘masters’

Who somehow got away with it.

Delve into the search for constancy

Happiness, love and endless delight.

Connecting man, his world, his inner soul

A philosophical treatise, an academic revelation.

Sit back all smug and important

Have other writers nod in my direction

There goes that man, the one of substance.

 

In case you wonder so do I?

Whatever all that may mean.

Rather I like to prattle

Go on about stuff

Some important to me, some not

Be whimsical, humourous,

Trite even dare I say it.

Discuss emotions, trivial issues

The cost of a loaf of bread

Apples more so than pears.

Come with me

Explore as I do

I may not always make a lot of sense

But it’s my mind, I like where it sits.

 

Each day as confusing as this may sound

I had teachers who would say  ‘yes but if you’…’if only’

‘Could you?’….’You know’….’think more laterally’….

What ever that meant.

I write my words my way

There is little point in me writing any other way

I live with a language that gushes forth.

I marvel at your words,

You are more articulate, thoughtful

Structured, meaningful, precise

Mine meander veer in various directions

Often little intention, understanding

My direction changes as the wind.

I use you as my mentor,

We all need a mentor,

Some use me as a mentor

I find that flattering,

But I do as I can…

After all I may need them

Sooner rather than later.

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Prompt 47 Street Art – Shapes

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Shapes

An obsession with shapes

They come at you from all angles

Curved, straight, obtuse,

Parallel circles drawn

Eye catching, compelling,

We stop, we take photos,

Amazing work.

In varying shades of blue.

 

The man who did this

Has played with shape

All his life, from a small boy

To now his work unique,

Controversial

Sold worldwide.

 

Around him the shapes evolve,

Like his life where he goes

A shape appears.

Life is how we make it

Whether in any colour

Or if we choose monotones

Ours is what we make it.

 

The ones we love stand and applaud

Happy for us to give it our best shot

Our shapes may not be symmetrical

But they are us, and us is all that matters.

For in the end,

Art

Like everything else,

Is always from a distance.

 

We stood back and admired his skill

Chatted with him,

Took a photo or two,

He thanked us

We moved on,

Our lives enriched, in better shape.

 

Written for: http://mindlovemisery.wordpress.com/2014/03/15/prompt-47-street-art/

 

 

 

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All in a Word…Criticism – The Letter

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A letter arrived, eagerly awaited.

Dear Sir, in response to your poem

We were puzzled by the content,

The metaphor bewildered us

Left a lot to be desired

Our readers would find

Your poem far too obtuse.

Our readers are simple folk,

Not tolerant of metaphors,

Yours of life being like a butterfly

Your treatment of larvae

To pupae to butterfly

Would confuse our humble readers.

We suggest poems of butterflies in gardens

Dancing, flitting, frolicking more appealing.

Far be it from us to suggest

But our editors felt your poetic abilities

Limited and constrained by

Language obscure.

 

Written for: http://13thfloorparadigm.wordpress.com/2014/03/15/all-in-a-word-2/

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Poem 110 – Puzzled

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I have puzzled you and I am sorry

At least I should be

But I’m not.

My work has left you in a quandary

I should be concerned

but I am not

Words are for you to play with

Decide a meaning

I did.

I enjoy your struggle

Is it this or that?

You figure.

You generate lively discussion

The purpose of language

Context important.

Language should challenge us

Confront us with meanings

That affront us.

Raise an intellectual eyebrow

Initiate multiple responses

Arguments abound.

I will make no apologies

Discuss with you all day

But you decide.

 

I am happiest when you

Share your thoughts

So I accept.

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MeetingTheBar: The Blind Poet – My Love

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I know when you come in

You have a way of breathing

It gives you away every time.

Even when you try and surprise me

I smell you, the lavender soap,

The soft powder on your skin.

I love the feel of your arms,

They enfold me, ensnare me

I ask for no more than your love.

Your touch, inflames me

Awakens my senses

For then I truly see you.

Written for: http://dversepoets.com/2014/03/13/meetingthebar-the-blind-poet/

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Poem 109 – Reflections of Blogger.

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I need two like buttons on my blog.

One: I like what you have written

One: I like how you have written.

Posts about depression, the terrible, the horrific,

pain, self-destruction, loss and grief I find hard to like

rather I’d prefer, I like how you have written.

So some days I comment only.

Some write in engaging ways on every topic.

They explore love lost, love unrequited,

I marvel at their skill at shaping meaning.

The writers whose thoughts captivate me

I want to crawl inside their minds and look around.

 

I think there should be a system

To notify when a blogger stops.

How sad it is to read a post one day

A blogger you follow and who follows you,

A writer of renown, greatly respected.

Then there is nothing.

Months later to go back finding a sad litany of requests

Where are you?

Are you well?

We miss you.

Please tell us you are ok?

3000  + followers, left to wonder.

I fear a sad end on this occasion.

Like life, bloggers come and go

Some are sprinters some are stayers.

It is hard to maintain interest, purpose

When so much else is happening around you

Family, children, work, career….

But I love what I do, the people I have met

The relationships formed

The learning, the enjoyment

Sharing my words

With you.

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