This week's proto-poems

 These ones need more work than the others, but I like some lines from them. The first one is based on a story my papa told about his brief time in Japanese-controlled Cambodia at the end of the war. For the final line, I originally had 'of those who [...]' but quickly decided that it didn't matter who specifically, because all of us are dangerous, under the right circumstances.

First prompt: something dangerous passed down

The sword is sharp,

even after years of being hidden in the attic.

Hidden with words too,

We mustn't speak of this sharp-edged symbol of war,

but in whispers.

There was a tale he saw a man's head cut off, 

was it this sword?

Did it know how to cut flesh,

break bone,

and never flinch?

Or was it, after all, just some metal shaped into a blade,

and danger lurks elsewhere,

in the minds and hands and deeds

of us.

Second prompt: a time when you were dangerous

I've never been dangerous in my life,

probably because I've never been in danger;

been surrounded by softness,

a warm home to come back to,

that was never in any danger of being taken away.

Or if there was danger,

I was steered away,

sheltered from,

so that I never saw the world

as a hard and sharp space,

but something to be embraced

in a warm and gentle hug.

But with the rug pulled from underneath 

so many feet,

it doesn't matter now that I'm not in any danger;

I will be dangerous for others.

Two more proto-poems

 Another useful early morning session with Marjorie Lotfi's Substack writing group.

First prompt: describe yourself using things that you love (Ways to Love Myself)

Why does the wind soughing through the trees

sound like the waves lapping at the shore;

the sound of a flock of birds taking off from the sand,

a flick of pages from a book 

that was constantly in my hand,

you couldn't prise it from me 

as I sought to glean words and meaning from the world around me.

Second prompt: losing yourself 

When I lost myself

it was not because I was trying so hard to be something I was not,

but rather something that I thought I should be.

No one explicitly told me,

You must do this,

This is how it should be;

I drifted along,

following the pull of the tide

but always a bit asklant,

never quite sure,

if this was the way it was supposed to go.

And I lost myself, somewhere in the ebb and flow of the world.

Two proto-poems

So I joined a writing group on Substack, run by the lovely Marjorie Lotfi. I'd attended a writing retreat she offered, last autumn. It's a half hour zoom call, with poetry readings and quick prompts for inspiration. I found the similar (longer) workshops that we'd done on the retreat helpful so I thought I'd make the effort to keep my poetry writing going.

I think of these like sketches. It's helpful to have a body of work that I can dip into and play with, rather than starting from scratch. These obviously need work, but I like some of the ideas.

First prompt: a place that mattered (to you)

Climbing Tricksy by the inner garden gate, 

balancing along the wall,

over ivy.

Shuffle up by the chimney pot

and find a spot 

to sit and read.

Spitting apple pips into the void.

Something takes root.

They never saw me there

or if they did 

would stop and stare 

and say what if you fell?

What if I flew?

Second prompt: talking because someone is listening 

The words didn't matter, 

it wasn't what I was saying

but that I was speaking at all.

Thoughts spilling out of me

all tumbled together

like when we broke the dam

that we had built at the beach

and the stream water flowed freely

all the way to the sea.