Writers Inspiration

Intimacy Denied (2)

/ lyncrain / 1 Comment

For a brief interlude

two bodies 

entwined,

each rolling dissonance

with the need

to create

dissembling obfuscation

in a sweet moment

of contentment.

The twinkling stars

bear witness as

the wind imitates

the rub of limbs.

Their intimate moment

betrayed.

The boundaries 

established once more.

Legs, arms declare

personal space

while lyrics of love

face doom

as the distance

grows

and the bedding

yawns.

I want to thank Victor Alemar and Bill Waters for their suggestions. I can’t wait to hear your input on the changes.

 

Langston Hughes and me

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Dream Deferred By Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?
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Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.Or does it explode?
I’ve asked myself that very question numerous times. I know more than once I’ve seen my hopes fade like the sun on a horizon. But I rose just like the sun refusing to accept my dream was deferred or over. I knew I was ready to share my story.

black-gloveBlack Glove by Lyn Crain

One single black glove left on the porch is all that is left a union of two.
The vivid, intense orange torch in their marriage flickered, now a black hue.
Angry words tossed into the flame, smothered immense passion.
Apologies spoken only sound lame, made the fire cold and ashen.
Violently shrugging away a touch, fighting a compulsion to flee.
Even a glance in his eye is too much. I must, Yes, I will be free.

Discussion Time for Featured Friday

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huggingwordslyn

I’ve been mulling over the prospect of hosting other writers on Friday as Featured Friday since another blogger approached me about wanting to discuss a post I made more in depth.  Is there any interest among my followers to participate in this venture?

If so please email me at lyn.crain@gmail.com.

My intent is for you to email your subject, and the content with all links necessary to connect everyone with you. Whatever info you would like to provide about yourself for the readers. I will post all writers participating in separate entries. If you would like to begin a series of discussion that should appear weekly, I can certainly accommodate that as well.

Looking forward to hearing from you.

Books

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“What an astonishing thing a book is. It’s a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you’re inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.”
― Carl Sagan 

Author Connection 4

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“Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.” ~Carl Sandburg

What is free verse poetry?  The Poet’s Cookbook says free verse does not use consistent meter patterns, rhyme, or any other musical pattern.[i] In fact, most slam or spoken word poetry from the past thirty or more years is free verse. Many poems composed in free verse tend to follow the rhythm of natural speech. Although free verse requires no meter, rhyme, or other traditional poetic techniques, a poet can still use them to create some sense of structure. A poet knows when to use certain phrases and comma to create rhythm and structure. The exact definition is written by the poet although T. S. Eliot wrote, “No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job”

Free verse poetry has become the favored form for new and experienced poets alike. Free verse may be written as very beautiful prose; prose may be written as very beautiful free verse. If you consider the Bible, there are passages written that flow naturally with a poetic cadence and no visible sign of structure which indicates to me that free verse has existed longer than we’ve realized.

I feel free verse provides me a sense of freedom to create without the confines found in traditional poetry. I frequently write free verse although my goal this year is to master sonnets and villanelles because every artist needs to continually improve their skill set. Robert Frost remarked that writing free verse was like “playing tennis without a net.” The thrill of no net appeals to most free spirits. Whereas William Carlos Williams states “poetry is art form, and therefore verse cannot be free in the sense of having no limitations or guiding principles” I think poets like Charles Bukowski, Walt Whitman, and Ezra Pound, who were masters at free verse poetry and would disagree with Mr. Williams. Many poets today still disagree on the value of having structure versus having no structure. Although we can all agree with Maya Angelou statement “Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes a human voice to infuse them with deeper meaning.”

I’ve chosen four selections of free verse that I enjoy and one of my own so you can see how the different poets approached free verse.

Finish and Cause and Effect are written by Charles Bukowski [ii]

Finish

We are like roses that have never bothered to

bloom when we should have bloomed and

it is as if

the sun has become disgusted with

waiting

Cause And Effect

the best often die by their own hand

just to get away,

and those left behind

can never quite understand

why anybody

would ever want to

get away

from

them

O Captain My Captain by Walt Whitman [iii]

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up- for you the flag is flung- for

you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths- for you the shores

a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,

You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Tame Cat by Ezra Pound [iv]

It rests me to be among beautiful women

Why should one always lie about such matters?

I repeat:

It rests me to converse with beautiful women

Even though we talk nothing but nonsense,

The purring of the invisible antennaeIs

both stimulating and delightful.

Our Eyes Meet by Lyn Crain [i]
The warm, afternoon sun trickles through the tree branches.
As I amble along the worn trodden path
our eyes meet, when I look her way.
I ask if I may join her, she nods yes.
Taken off guard as a rush of heat rises to my face
by this beautiful, enchanting woman before me.
Her short shiny blonde hair against her golden skin-
sparkling blue eyes with an irresistible smile.
Her curvaceous body dressed provocatively-
a blithe smile slowly widens as we converse.
I am curious what made her cheeks suddenly flush,
and her azure eyes darken and smolder.
The minx suggestively teases me as
her tongue slowly slips across her pink lips.
I sense there is a passionate woman hiding within.
Her beautiful blue eyes twinkle with mischief reveal
a more intimate side in her nature.
Her mysterious aura enthralls and seduces me
breaking down every barrier, melting my soul.
Her lascivious laughter lifts my troubled spirit and
captivates my heart with her bubbly carefree nature.
I smile as I gaze once more into her sparkling eyes.
My breath suddenly ragged with desire.
Her gentle touch setting my blood aflame.
As we stroll along the now dew covered path
fingers intertwined, not a word spoken.
The sensual magic of a new love unfolding
as our eyes lock once more…

[i] The Poet’s Cookbook by Dan Gilbert

[ii] https://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poems/short/charles_bukowski

[iii] https://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/o_captain_my_captain_198

[iv] https://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/tame_cat_14985

[v]  Our Eyes Meet was written for Victor Crain, my best friend, my husband.

My Spiritual Side Needs

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angel1

Angels©Maurya Simon

Who are without mercy,
Who confide in trumpet flowers,
Who carry loose change in their pockets,
Who dress in black velvet,
Who wince and fidget like bats,
Who balance their haloes on hatracks,
Who watch reruns of famine,
Who powder their noses with pollen,
Who laugh and unleash earthquakes,
Who sidle in and out of our dreams
Like magicians, like childhood friends,
Who practice their smiles like pirates,
Who exercise by walking to Zion,
Who live on the edge of doubt,
Who cause vertigo but ease migraines,
Who weep milky tears when troubled,
Whose night sweats engender the plague,
Who pinion their arms to chandeliers,
Who speak in riddles and slant rhymes,
Who love the weak and foolhardy,
Who lust for unripe persimmons,
Who scavenge the fields for lost souls,
Who hover near lighthouses,
Who pray at railroad crossings,
Who supervise the study of rainbows,
Who cannot blush but try,
Who curl their hair with corkscrews,
Who honeymoon with Orion,
Who are not wise but pure,
Who behave with impious propriety,
Who hourly scour our faces with hope,
Whose own faces glow like radium,
Whom we’ve created in our own form,
Who are without mercy, seek and yearn
To return us like fossilized roses
To the wholeness of our original bloom.

T.S.Eliot

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I love his poetry. I’m particularly fond of Macavity, The Mysterious Cat. We named our youngest tabby cat Macavity because like Eliot’s cat in the poem whenever things happen he is nowhere to be seen.This beauty with the golden eyes is our baby.img_2115-2

https://allpoetry.com/Macavity:-The-Mystery-Cat

I adore Eliot’s writing. His grasp of poetry and it’s purpose in society is sheer brilliance. I’ve chosen a few quotes that define poetry’s role for a poet like me.

“Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.”

“Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.”
My own poetry frequently is an escape from the person I am inside. Years and years of being one person to survive and another that loves creative expression and the musical flow of language but had to keep it secret writing gave me to a way to put all the jumbled emotions into perspective.