Alright, if you’ve got a minute today…!!
A minute poem has 12 lines of 60 syllables broken into in 3 stanzas, following the 8/4/4/4 syllable pattern and the aabb/ ccdd/ eeff/ rhyme scheme. Write your micropoem and share using comments or Mister Linky!
shut down the weapon factories
find ways for peace
question your gun
question your son
pack up the sprawling tent cities
children need homes
our dead need tombs
who are they truly beating for
these drums of war
what are your lies
what is their price
I tried the Naani form in the first week of Micropoetry Month. It is a four line poem that has 20-25 syllables. The first two lines provide the subject that the next two bring to an interesting close.
Thought we’d give it another shot as we make our way into the last week of November. Share your micropoem using comments or Mister Linky and do stop to read poems shared by fellow bloggers.
He once raged against
the colonial sahibs-
I eulogize grandpa
in the Queen’s English.
When all your questions
have the same answer,
you’ll find all your answers
came from a single question.
Love finds its
own direction somehow,
even the river cannot swim
back to the mountain.
I love the Ghazal – it is lyrical, challenging and utterly beautiful when it comes out right. The repeating end word and rhyming word of each couplet define the cadence of the ghazal and direct its mood. No one writes it better in English than Agha Shahid Ali, one of my favourite poets.
Try a ghazal or any other form of micropoetry and share via comments or Mister Linky.
My attempt today references the legendary romance of Prince Salim and Anarkali, a dancer in the court of his father, the great Emperor Akbar.
Briefly, behind harem veils, where the moon wind gently rose,
a prince sought his father’s concubine, a soft, heavenly rose.
The king burned in royal wrath, the denouement broke their hearts,
she was buried alive under the stones, where the Jamuna quickly rose.
You spoke of Salim and Anarkali, intolerable even to fate,
he died as the mighty Jahangir, she lives on, a stately rose.
I remember the sky that night, impossibility fell like rain,
wet skin grew of fatal hope, though new suns cruelly rose.
The climax of human opera, the drama of the unfulfilled,
tragedy stains god and tomb and the death-hued pearly rose.
They say poets shouldn’t write poems about poetry… but then, who else will!
What about poetry though? Bring your thoughts on poetry- how far does it reach, can it make a difference, are people who aren’t writing poetry, reading poetry? Or do you write for yourself, because you can, because you have to and it doesn’t matter if anyone else reads it or not. How do you engage readers, be effective, cause change, does that even matter? Be a poet, writing about poetry, for today!!
Share your micropoem through comments or using Mister Linky. Hope you also stop by to read the lovely poems shared by fellow bloggers.
He sits across from me
on the 8.14 train,
his eyes keen on the bottom half
of his folded tabloid,
I read the poem hanging upside down
on the back of his paper,
its silenced voice smelling of curdled ink,
its forced smile overturned into grief,
its wordless monochrome arms,
flapping like oversized shrouds,
unable to hold up the new world order.
He looks up and smiles politely,
turning the page.
disappointment is raw sky
before it paints its face innocent blue,
where the blackness sears your eyes,
a fire that you cannot see or put out,
where you grasp the stars so you will not fall,
how many points do they have?
why do they gash and cut my palm, leaking blood
that will not leave the body?
disappointment is seeing the moon
strung from hooks with steel cables,
a falsehood made of recycled dreams,
how many hopes were pinned on a piece
of dented aluminium glitter?
in the back streets of the city where
the asphalt and trees have a washed out
mediocrity, the crows look tired and ashen
and the cats are mangy, as if they would rather
starve than eat the tasteless gutter rats,
from there to the top of the mountain
is a million steps, the only way to rise
is to cut strips of yourself, unburden
yourself of yourself as you go, and yet
tonight, reaching the top, flat and empty, my head
half buried in the undressed sky,
seeing reality lie after lie,
was it all for nothing? but wait,
you can prise out sunbeams buried in the dirt
and slide down to where you began,
but there is a question, a ticket clerk
at a half window, bespectacled, asking you
who you are, apparently there is a right answer
to exit purgatory and go back to the beginning,
to the foot of the mountain that
you cannot climb without ridding yourself
of yourself. I told him I was everything I wasn’t,
I wasn’t anything I was, and found myself back where I
started, the mountain of doubt ahead of me,
with nothing to give up that was or wasn’t,
unable to separate myself from myself,
to journey to hell again.
While I prefer to break away from the 5-7-5 scheme and other traditional haiku rules, I still think haiku or senryu (in its modern avatar) should seize the essence of a moment anchored in the close observation of nature. This is truly the hardest form of poetry to get right- to be simple yet profound, layered yet obvious, beautiful yet utterly truthful.
contrary to the summer rain
this endless waiting
she hides my unfinished dreams
in her folds
together we watch
orange tulips filling with rain
Share your haiku or any other form of micropoetry using comments or Mister Linky!
At CDHK this month, the prompts are based on the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, his exceptional quatrains providing inspiration for beautiful micropoetry. If you like Haiku and Tanka, CDHK is a must-visit site wonderfully hosted by Kristjaan Panneman.
Writing about the love of the eternal beloved that fills his heart like a cup of wine, leading to an intoxicated union in which self is annihilated and faith transcends to the purest level, the quatrains explore all aspects of the path to realisation through heightened states of mystical/ metaphysical love.
The beauty of the quatrain (4 lines with an AABA rhyme) comes from the simple experiences of the manifest world in the larger quest for union with the eternal truth.
but the wine you poured into the womb of the night
has turned sinful black this morning’s blight,
who counted those truths we told yesterday, love,
my cup sits empty in your tavern’s darkened light
Beyond masters like Khayyam or Jami, the quatrain has been used by so many others, including Frost, with varying rhyme patterns.
push aside this veil of autumn leaves
from winter’s snow paled face
like the widowed moon her cold heart grieves
for those sun kissed halcyon days
dark clouds fill the Jamuna deep,
these wretched maidens no longer sleep,
why do they mourn your leaving, O Krishna,
when Radha does not weep.
Try a quatrain or any other form of micropoetry and share using comments or Mister Linky!