The Poetry Wheel

Color Wheel by Pre-School Daze.com via Google Images

Poetry bleeds red,
surges from the womb,
trickles down the page.
Words pool at your feet.

Poetry skulks black,
struggles in dark corners,
slithers in the night.
Words labor to console.

Poetry flows blue,
springs from barren deserts,
saturates the leaves.
Words quench dying thirst.

Poetry glows gold,
gentle penetration,
fills these empty pages.
Words satiate desire.

Poetry blushes wine,
emanating spirit,
kneads the tired soul,
lifts from weariness.

Poetry sprouts green,
nourishes understanding,
words hard to digest,
unlocking limitations.

Poetry throbs orange,
explodes upon the tongue,
demands to be set free—
words forged in searing fire.

Poetry scours white,
purifies the meaning.
Freshest words that breathe,
borne upon the breeze.

I’m happy to link this to dVerse Open Link Night where talented poets from all over the globe submit their poetry of choice. We welcome newcomers, whether you simply want to browse or, hopefully, bring a poem of your own to share. The “pub” opens Tuesday at 1500 EDT.

Canvas

I’m “tending bar” today over at dVerse Poet’s Pub where the theme for the prompt is symbolism. I hope you’ll join us! My challenge to you is to share a symbolic poem of your own and leave a comment here, as well, letting me know what the painting and poem symbolizes to you. This is expressionistic art, which, by definition, seeks to express emotion or to elicit an emotional response. Thank you.

Credit: Image from Google, en.arthoffer.com-the Artist’s website and name was not available.

Canvas

A stretch of white.
You scrape a knife
through black, then indigo,
layer darkness,
across the horizon.
Reach for a tube of
chestnut brown,
squeeze the contents
onto the lower half
and smear.
Payne’s grey sky.
A slash of crimson,
a miniscule orb
in orange.

Potters

Potters

Earth Elephant (Photo credit: Caro's Lines)

The day wind felled a weary oak,
we donned work aprons, boots,
took pails and spades in hand
and ventured out into the brumy cold
to scoop red clay, harvesting Earth.

That night we sat around a fire.
Flickering flames of warmth dispelled
the cold that seeped through dense
gray stone—walls caching sacred
secrets of a century and more.

We worked the clay that night, extracting
grit and stones, Gaia’s grainy
cells that would, ignored, destroy
our own creative efforts. Each night
thereafter, tediously, we toiled for perfection.

And when the day arrived to mold
and fashion terra-cotta worlds,
figures formed of toil and imagination,
clods of mud clung to our hands
that we discarded as extraneous.

Yet now and then we’d find a pebble.
Another proof that life eludes
the quest for flawless execution.

I apologise for re-posting an older poem. Time has not been generous with me lately! I’m linking this to the theme of sculpture at dVerse Poetics which I’ve had the honor of hosting. Hope to see you there.

Process Note: this took place in Brittany, France in the early 70′s when I was living in a “mostly-monastic” setting.

Photo: License Creative Commons, Non-Commercial Share-Alike

Potters

The day wind felled a weary oak,
we donned work aprons, boots,
took pails and spades in hand
and ventured out into the brumey cold
to scoop red clay, harvesting Earth.

That night we sat around a fire.
Flickering flames of warmth dispelled
the cold that seeped through dense
gray stone—walls caching sacred
secrets of a century and more.

We worked the clay that night, extracting
grit and stones, Gaia’s grainy
cells that would, ignored, destroy
our own creative efforts. Each night
thereafter, tediously, we toiled for perfection.

And when the day arrived to mold
and fashion terra-cotta worlds,
figures formed of toil and imagination,
clods of mud clung to our hands
that we discarded as extraneous.

Yet now and then we’d find a pebble.
Another proof that life eludes
the quest for flawless execution.

In the early 70′s I lived in a monastic setting at the Motherhouse of Les Petites Soeurs des Pauvres in St. Pern, Brittany, France. The above story is true. I am submitting this poem to Gay Cannon’s prompt at dVerse Poet’s Pub, as a metaphorical twist on life. I’m also linking it to my own prompt for this week’s Write2Day. The muse actually crawled out from under the covers this morning!

Motherhouse of the Little Sisters of the Poor

Sarich–dVerse Poetics

Yesterday, at dVerse Poetics, Mark Kerstetter invited us to go wild. An image of Basquiat’s work prompted me to visit another contemporary artist, Michael Sarich, who is an art professor here at the University of Nevada, Reno and who, a couple of years ago, had a feature exhibit at the Nevada Museum of Art. His work is packed with symbolism. To better understand my poem, check out this link to our museum’s Docent Depot.

 

 

 

 

 

Sarich

Symbol-charged,
ou plunge
deep into water,
touch creative
impulse—
wild visions
of truth.

Turtle
you draw with-
in, find meaning,
reach out,
fish
in cultural currents.
Commercialization
de-means
religious icon-
ography
with Mickey
Mouse idealization.

Grasp hold of that beach
ball, keep afloat
in seas of abuse,
confused ex-
pression of
paternal lov-
ing fury.

Too bad Hitler
de-meaned
su-
asti-
ka.
corRUPTion
of well-
being.

Tonight
snuggle in your nest
fight demons
that threaten to
de-
story
your work, your
(Yours truly), BE-
ing.

Michael is fighting a degenerative neurological disorder. This doesn’t keep him from conducting classes and continuing to pursue his work. I had the privilege of attending a one-day drawing class that he gave at the museum during the exhibit.

Textures–dVerse Poetics

Today, I am honored to host Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub: http://dversepoets.com/  I chose to discuss one of my favorite art elements: texture. I hope you will join us at the pub–enjoy a drink, good friends and outstanding poetry.

Photo of Ascot (RIP) D. Slotto

Textures

About five-thirty
the morning of Friday before
day-light-saving-time,
light spills through blinds,
pools into discrete
silver puddles
at the foot of my bed.

Through the half-moon window
near the ceiling,
swatches of gray satin
unfurl across the sky.
Tears in the fabric
allow slices of blue to
peek through,
toss hope in my face.

In that shadowy space between
asleep and awake
ideas pelt my brain
so I can’t escape back into
my dream about the circus
where I rode barefoot,
standing on the rough coat
of a white mare.
I slip into awareness.

Cold smooth wood
greets my feet as I stand
and yawn.
My dog
shakes his silky fur, glares at
me for interrupting his dreams.

We stretch, enter the day,
touch life.

Today’s special at the bar: Margaritas…rimmed with salt to give you textural inspiration!

Non Sequitur

Image via Wikipedia

Today at dVerse Poets’ Pub, the talented Mark Kerstetter challenges us to dip into the waters of Surrealism by way of the work of Giorgio de Chirico – the man, his art or one of his works in particular.

I’ve chosen to touch on the surrealistic movement as it affected many aspects of life in the post-World War I era. Surrealism influenced not only the visual arts but also literature, music and politics. Its proponents went so far as to write a “Surrealist Manifesto” encouraging a revolutionary mind-set among its adherents. I must admit that surrealism is perhaps my least favorite art form. On the other hand, I enjoyed becoming surrealist for a day. Thanks so much for the challenge, Mark.

Non-Sequitur

Breaking News,
Circa 1920-something,
Paris, France:

BASTARD CHILD OF DADA
EMERGES
REVOLTING!

<anti-art,
revolting.>

ManRay had lunch today
with Reverdy.
“Create a juxtaposition
of two more or less distant
realities.”

Je t’aime.
Je t’en prie.
Je t’attends,
l’anarchie.

Mr. Magrite, viens ici.

Bienvenue, Leon Trostky

Breaking News,
Circa 2020-something,
wherever:

THIS WORLD IS STILL
CONTINUOUSLY
CONFUSING TO ME.

Pay a visit to http://dVersepoets.com and enjoy a “trip” into the world of surrealism and poetry. Perhaps you’ll enjoy sharing your work with those of us gathered in the Pub.

dVerse Poets’ Pub GRAND OPENING–It’s a big day!

Image by chrischapman via Flickr

In just over an hour, poets from all over the world will gather in a virtual pub to celebrate the birth of a new poetry community. I know the cheer will be abundant and the company the best. Come and join some of your old buddies and meet new friends at http://dversepoets.com/ . You will be treated to fine wine, a glass of bubbly or brew and a blend of the arts. See you there!

Words I’ve Never Used in a Poem

Align
Benign
           Confabulate
           Denigrate
Enigma
Figment
           Gentility
           Hostility
Iamb (in a)
Jam
           Khaki or
           Lacky
Muzzle (maybe)
Nuzzle
           Obsession
           Puzzle
Quibble
acquittal
           Snug
           Tug
Ubiquitous
Victorious
           Wigwam
           Xian
Yellow Jag
ZigZag

And I doubt if I will. But who knows.

 

Painting Life–Poetry Potluck

Image via Wikipedia

Painting Life

Were you to draw this life in black and white,
the lines would then be hard and not forgive—
no subtle shades to ease the journey’s plight.

With color’s tones and even tones of gray
the world assumes her nuances of grace—
the lights and shadows of our every day.

So you surrender paint and page and hand
unto the artful muse who lurks inside,
allowing her to guide your thought and pen.

You smear the brightest orange with yellow
taste the sweet scent of the fair Scotch Broom
and forge in black the loamy earth below.

Now play with texture to confuse one’s sense
and add perspective, draw the viewer in.
Create illusion to obscure pretense.

You will take risks when you engage in art,
allow your soul to bleed on canvas bare.
Be sure you understand this ere you start.

Submitted to Jingle’s Poetry Potluck where the theme for this week is ART!  http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com

Summer Bliss–Season’s Favorite Challenge

Image via Wikipedia

In summer, the song sings itself. William Carlos Williams

Summer Night
by Kobayashi Issa

Summer night–
even the stars
are whispering to each other.

Summer Bliss
by Victoria Ceretto-Slotto
a collection of Haiku

Sitting on the deck
garden sunshine and shadow
early morning bliss

A male oriole
lay lifeless ‘neath the Ash tree.
Flaming sunset paused.

Red hot pokers flaunt
their brilliant orange erections—
boasting, unashamed.

Those brilliant red globes
peek from behind floppy leaves.
Tomatoes galore!

Reno is Art Town
tourists stroll the Riverwalk
watch painters at work.

Summertime living
lazy river rolling on
bees search for pollen.

Growing corn surrounds
(hides mysteries and wonders)
in my Field of Dreams.

A Few of My Favorite Things:

Quote: William Carlos Williams—among my top twenty favorite poets

Poem: Summer Night by Kobayashi Issa—discovering and savoring Japanese poetry

Word: Sunshine

Animal: Orioles—visit our feeder several times a day–here’s a photo my husband took a few days ago:

Photo: David Slotto

Flower: Red Hot Pokers—help attract those orioles–the photo at the top of this post is of a red hot poker.

Food: Heirloom Tomatoes—ugly-looking delicious fruit that my husband grows from seed.

Town: Reno—in July, Reno celebrates ArTown, bringing all the arts to many venues every day. Most people equate the “Biggest Little City in the World” with divorce and gambling. Those of us who live here know better. To learn more about Artown visit: http://www.renoisartown.com/

2011 ArTown Poster Image by Kelly Peyton

Song: “Summertime”—steamy, sultry song from the musical “Porgy and Bess”

Book: “The Secret Life of Bees” –an exquisite novel, literary fiction, by Sue Monk Kidd. Every word is poetry.

Movie: “Field of Dreams”—a baseball classic starring Kevin Costner.

Images: Who can choose? I love the intense colors of nature.

Photo: V. Slotto

Written in response to Broken Sparkles  Season’s Favorite Challenge. Check it out at http://brokensparkles.wordpress.com/