Tag Archives: NaPoWriMo

Down with the Sails

5 Apr

Wild nights Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Down would come the sails
Naked in the moonbeams we
As our Wild nights should be
Our secret luxury!

Futile the calling winds
My Heart seduced in your port
Done with the Compass
Done with the Chart!
My Q flag a flying
My wheel lashed up short.

Rowing in a blissful Eden
Ah rocking in time with the Sea!
My heart tugs at the anchor
Open your arms to harbor me
Might I but moor tonight
Dear sir, In thee!

image

It’s a poetic arts & crafts project for day five of NaPoWriMo. Today’s prompt is to choose a poem by Emily Dickinson, then deconstruct and reconstruct it. I chose Wild Nights – Wild Nights! (no surprise there). I incorporated a little bit more of the ‘sailboat in port’ metaphors. I was never fully satisfied with her original poem to begin with, so this was a nice chance to doctor it up a bit.

What it is Not

1 Apr

What is it not?
No one ever asks but
it is not five times seven times three
it is not forty degrees north
seventy four degrees west

it is not found
like a penny on the sidewalk
or passed over, or let go altogether
because budget cuts
because the market these days

it isn’t able to be deleted
like a voice mail we didn’t listen to
or muted
like a conversation that bores us
it is not fruitful to ignore

it isn’t about giving leftovers to a stranger
on the corner, with no teeth
it isn’t about saying yes
and meaning no, not really
and it is not your very favorite song

it won’t bite you
nor whine in your ear all night
and you can’t hold it, so
you didn’t expect it
to purr in your hand

and despite your best intentions
to appear nonchalant
it won’t ask you to stay
nor will it give you a choice
either way.

wpid-imag1582.jpg

National Poetry Month is here! The challenge of NaPoWriMo is to write a poem every day for 30 days. There are prompts all over the web to help you accomplish this. I chose to use today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo.net, which was to write a poem of negation. Sounded fun and interesting to me, so I gave it a shot. Hope you like it, and join us this month in writing poems every day.

Click on the button to hear me read this poem out loud:

A Cup of Time

8 Apr

Time is my treasure
served up as
a steaming cup of tea
our friendship brews.
It goes down smooth
the bitter leaves
balanced with honey
kind, comforting
warm, and true.

I savor our cup
of time together
and cradle
in my loving fingers
the delicate porcelain
of our friendship
hoping, with each sip
it will last forever.

image

Konigl pr. Tettau Bavarian antique bone china tea set from the 1940’s.

Today at Dverse Poetics, Mary challenges us to choose a treasured object and write a poem that tells a story about it. I chose one of my antique china tea sets. It is from the 1940’s, and very special to me, because it symbolizes quality time spent drinking tea with my daughters, family, special guests, and friends. Although it is old and delicate, I like to use it as often as I can. It is one of those things that I felt I needed in order to make this house a home, and wherever I go from here it will come with me and do the same.

This is Just to Say

8 Apr

I have written
many poems
about you
on my blog

and which
you were probably
thinking
is not cool

Forgive me
they were fantasy
so sweet
and so irresistible.

Bulletin board in Nantucket

Bulletin board in Nantucket

NaPoWriMo Day 8! I am waay behind again this year, partially because I feel like I lost my muse. Anyway, today’s prompt was to rewrite a famous poem. I chose to rewrite one of my very favorite poems, by William Carlos Williams, which you can read below:

I have eaten
the plums
that were
in the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

I Will Write

2 Oct

of the way your tiered skirt
twirls out just so,
a merry-go-round of dizzy
girlish infatuations with
a calliope soundtrack

of how there is nothing
more lovifying than when
we put our heads together
eyeball to eyeball
butterfly kisses right before naptime

of your stomping feet
leaving a wake of boots,
shoes, sandals, dirt,
some stickers from the yard
and the trail of pine straw that
betrays your comings and goings

of your pushing the bed time
stalling with questions and stories
begging me for a song of blessing
which I always deliver
despite the contraband of books
and flashlights I always discover

of all these things, and hopefully more
your lives intertwined with mine,
filling this cup overflowingly,
then emptying it out again
I will write.

Speeding by

Speeding by

Waterman

29 Aug

I stare down the barrel
swab it out clean
I pull out a cartridge
lock and load
I aimlessly ponder
random objectives
while my fingers itch
I grip the metal
it is comfortably cold
a muse unto itself
it’s a means to an end
mightier than the sword
my fountain pen

Summer Love

9 Aug

They met in the summer,
on the south end of Pawleys Island
where the waves slap high-fives
and the north wind runs free.
And on one star-filled night,
while the moon shone bright,
the green marsh fell deeply
in love with the blue sea.

You could feel it everywhere,
their love was swirling in the air.
She loved his blue intensity,
he loved her green positivity.
It was right as the tides,
so it came as no surprise,
when the dashing blue groom,
took the luminous green bride.

For the great wedding feast
came the turtles, from the east
and other privileged guests,
including the egrets from the west.
The mullets came from up north,
a procession of pelicans from down south,
and the blue creek crabs
just popped in, unannounced.

“I will love you when it storms,
and when its sunny, I will rejoice.”
“I will provide a place for you,
I will listen for your voice.”
“And whether the tides are high or low,
no matter how the wind blows,
we will ride it all together
so our precious love grows.”

As long as time will be,
every year on Pawleys,
all shall celebrate the day
the green marsh
married the blue sea.
Because Forever, the blue sea
will run his gentle fingers through her hair.
Forever, the green marsh
will whisper sweet nothings in his ear.
And when only sand and shells remain,
the air will still smell like champagne.

Weddings

Little Things that are actually Big Things

15 Jul

a poem of thanksgiving

shoes to protect my tender feet,
a campfire and its healing heat
a boat, and sail to make it heel
the compass, the sextant, and the wheel

a pen, with all its inky bliss
a big bear hug, a deep French kiss.

spectacles for my weary eyes
journalists, to help me realize
the on/off switch, zeroes and ones
spreadsheets, and balanced sums

big fluffy towels, to lie on hot sand
phone calls from friends, helping hands

the hot water heater, a convertible two-seater,
a syncopated beat, iambic pentameter

a passport, for when I need to roam
a light on, for when I come home
photographs to keep my memories true,
especially my fondest ones of you

slow dancing, with intimate grace,
a blanket, and its warm embrace,
a pillow for my sleepy head
and silence, after all is said.

I wrote this poem around Thanksgiving 2012, just reflecting on things, inventions, contributions to society that I am grateful for. Copyright 2012 Lupe Tucker.

The internet is full of rants. Help tip the balance: today, simply be thankful for something (or someone).

NYC Moma

View from the 4th Floor gallery of the Museum of Modern Art

“Look at your immediate surroundings with a fresh eye ..”

Nantucket

11 Jul

A congregation of clouds,
protective mothers, hover over
stoic buildings, neatly arranged
cobbled into place by time
and if the sun dares to shine
you greet it, with an air of indifference
because the flowers will still burst
jubilantly, from their window boxes.

The sea gives, the sea takes away
Nantucket has weathered it all
and stalwart, it continues
living, breathing history
with arrivals and departures
marking the days, because
in this far away place
nature bats last.

First

5 Jun

It was in a dream
in a low-light room
in a box of matches
from a pocket

It was a rapid friction
a flare of passion
reflected in dark eyes

It was in a dream
I sometimes tell myself
where nothing I touched
could touch me back

It was in my skin
in the evidence of
the scars, the burns,
the scratches

In a crying moment
in a chosen fashion
that a game of arms
struck like matches

in the beating heart
of a dream
pleasure & pain
are the same muscle.

Sparks

Sparks

I wrote this poem in 1993. I was taking an Environmental Science class in college and it was so boring, and so long, that I would write poetry to help myself stay awake. It was inspired by a friend, and I was trying to write a poem from his perspective. This poem was originally published in the Garnet & Black Quarterly, 1994. Copyright Lupita Eyde.

Daily Prompt – Sensitive

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