Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017: #26

I’ve never attempted a cinquain before. I had to look up the rules and found that the original form developed by Adelaide Crapsey expected a seemingly unmanageable accentual stress rule as well as a syllabic pattern. I am writing this just as a 22 syllable poem following the challenging 2/4/6/8/2 pattern. I think this will be an exciting form once I figure out the best way to use the opening and closing two-syllable lines! Here’s my attempt- the theme today is love!

(1)

the hush
at summer’s end
when fireflies stoke the burn
the moon melts into liquid heat
with us

(2)

perhaps
in the morning
I can love with reason
but the night succumbs to the stars
perhaps

(3)

feel it
the angry wind
the hungry lick of rain
the storm that wraps our nakedness
ashamed

(4)

silent
your poetry
like morning dew on grass
does it know those secrets of love
I don’t

Share your micropoem using comments or Mister Linky.

 

Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017: #11

I’ve never attempted Renga before and I don’t know many of its intricate rules! Renga is traditionally composed by two or more poets, with a three line verse offered by one (what became standalone haiku subsequently) followed by a 2 line response by another. Written alone, it is called Solo Renga and the single poet takes on both roles.

The response usually derives its theme from the previous verse and then incorporates a shift, so the whole chain becomes fluid and while centered around one idea, keeps moving and creating new images. The five lines of verse and response (the precursor of the tanka) should fit in a way that the two lines in the middle work well with both the preceding and succeeding verse…though that, I suppose, requires some serious expertise!

Here’s my shot at Solo Renga. Share your micropoem in this or any other form using comments or Mister Linky. Start your own renga or feel free to pick up where this one stops!

Those Renga Nights

coy moon
she holds the passing mist
to her naked breast

trapped between half-light and day
a harlot, a moan, a lover

creaking garden gate-
tonight, I fear,
it’s just the wind

only the stars heard him arrive
the sun was sleeping when he left

but look how they smile-
the white lilies rest
like sated paramours

the dervish whirls in the silver dark
stirring the attar of roses

broken wine jar
people will know you, love,
when the flowers bloom

what is a tree, what is a flower
but a tree, but a flower

 

Once we were friends

when you take your eyes off me, universe,
I feel your chill like a sudden cloud cover,
grey with disinclination, the taste of alone
metallic at the back of my helplessness,

it is true your usual armoury of hate and fear
and hunger, every ugly arrow in your quiver,
was blunted by banality, by insulated cliché,
your every battle cry silenced by the
monotonous hum of the insipid tedium,

I tried to forget you,
to undo the knots in our weave,
but you grew petty and took away your largesse,
see, the rain here is tepid and tasteless,
the ocean motionless in a faded stupor,
the sky unwilling to undrape yesterday’s sweat stained clouds,
poems wither unread in the shadow of your retribution,

but your craftiness is old, is wasted on hearts
that don’t crave the colourful distraction of change,
the luscious touch of want , the opium of victory,
go away, universe, once we were friends, were more,
singing together at the purple brink of creation,
but you needed too much,

put away your angst, your shallow revolution,
the wildflowers no longer smell of warm honey
but birds gather on the old brick porch
and fresh tea bubbles on the stove,
come sit a while,
remember what happened here
the first time we met.

That’s It

that’s it, universe, we’re done,
it’s all over between us,
your celestial pyrotechnics leave me cold,
the passion that burnt stars across your velour skin
is shrouded in a faithless cloud,
love has returned to its barren womb,
don’t bring me your rasping birdsong,
your sulphurous threnody,
your breath snags on the rough edges
of your deception,
and now you roll the moon through my window,
it bounces softly by my feet, once, twice,
its gleaming hands tug my toes,
but you chose wrong,
how can I be placated
by a temperamental orb
of stolen shine,
that will be gone at first light,
it’s over now, let us brood in our corners,
for a while, for what was,
you in your spangled robe
tucked into the infinite dark,
you in your blindfold,
somewhere within my blackened soul,
me, in the hem of your skirt,
wordless, broken,
each gasp scratched by your harsh callouses,
your promise stuck like a splinter in my cheek,
the waning moon,
awkwardly balanced in my hand,
singing our song.

#19

The morning thrush,
sliver of moon in her beak,
darkness spilt across her breast,
spreads wings
heavy from the passion
of a forbidden night.

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