The Second Week

The Paradise (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In the almost-beginning, that is,
the second week of creation,
God created some letters.
He tossed them up, shuffled them,
and, voilà, they formed words.
God was delighted.
This is a great idea, God said.
Verbs and nouns work well.
He found that it was very, very good.

The second day
of the second week of creation
God decided he wanted to describe the beauty
that he had set in motion the previous week.
God came up with adjectives, adverbs,
metaphors, and all sorts of tropes.
He set about naming colors and shapes,
tones, scents, textures and everything
else that human senses could take in.
He got so excited that before he knew it
the third and fourth day had passed
and God hadn’t even had a nap.

Early on the morning of the fifth day,
God played with rhyme and meter.
The sounds of words flowed
throughout His Universe.
Once again, God was thrilled.
This verse is something truly enchanting, God said.
I wish I’d thought of it before.

That evening he thought he’d better check
in on the Garden.
There he found Adam and Eve,
curled up beneath the Tree of Life.
They had their hands cupped over their ears.
On their faces, knitted brows and pursed lips
spoke of their confusion.
God hadn’t planned on allowing suffering.
He realized the poor creatures couldn’t grasp the sounds,
so he told them, Relax, I’ll be back tomorrow.

True to his Word, the next morning,
just as the sun was peeking over the horizon
and the songbirds were tuning up for morning praise
God dropped in on the couple.
Holding his hand, was a young child
with silky black curls and a peaceful demeanor.
She wore a gauzy white robe
and carried a sheaf of papyrus.
Her aura was quite visible to Adam and Eve,
showcasing, one after another,
the colors of the rainbow.
Look here, God said. Look who I have for you.
And so it was that on the sixth day
of the second week of creation God created a Poet.
She’s here to help you make sense of it all, God said.

On the second Sabbath, that is,
the seventh day of the second week of creation,
God felt exhausted and Adam and Eve could hardly keep their eyes open.
So it happened that the three of them—
God, Adam and Eve, all rested together against the trunk of the Tree
while the Child-Poet-Muse read aloud.

I’m linking this whimsical story-poem, first draft, to dVerse Poets’ Pub Open Link Night. I have no intention of trivializing Sacred Scripture, but rather wish to elevate words, poetry and poets as a gift of the Creator.

You are all invited and encouraged to participate in this wonderful poetry community. Stop by and enjoy reading, and add a poem of your own! The link will be open Tuesday 3 PM EST.

Write2Day: Music and the Written Word

Image via Wikipedia

Over the last few years, I’ve come to appreciate the interconnectedness of all the various expressions of art. Consider how many photographic bloggers participate in poetry communities. How often do you see prose or poetry bloggers insert links to music in their work? Or how about visual or performance arts as an inspiration for the written word? Today, I’d like to present a few brief thoughts about how music and writing are wed.

Music and meter.

We discover an obvious connection between music and poetry when we write or read form poetry, which often is defined by meter. But even in prose, the writer often (consciously or not) seeks to create a rhythmic sequence of words that is pleasing to the ear. I’ve found myself searching for a word of a certain number of syllables or with emphasis on a particular syllable because my ear tells me it will work better than the word I may have chosen in the first place.

Music as a metaphor.

Use of musical metaphors can be so effective in evoking certain moods. Think about how you “feel” listening to a symphony as opposed to hip-hop. There are scenes where I’ve mentioned background music just for the purpose of creating an emotion. Use of musical instructive words, words that tell the musician to slow down (adagio), speed it up (allegro), play louder (forte) or softer (pianissimo) are just a few examples of techniques to add an emotional context to both prose and poetry. There is a very useful glossary of musical terminology at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Musical_terminology

Music as Inspiration.

Many writers and artists use music to help inspire their work. I once read in a novel-writing how-to book (sorry, I can’t remember which one) the suggestion to create a sound track that represents the nature of your manuscript.

For today’s prompt, let’s turn to music. Here’s a few suggestions of how you might do that:

• Write a form poem that calls for a specific meter such as iambic pentameter.
• Use music as the subject of your short fiction or poem.
• Employ a musical metaphor in your work.
• Write a short essay on how you use music in your writing, or how music has influenced you in the past.

To participate, post your work on your blog. Access Mr. Linky at the bottom of this post and include your name and the direct URL of your post. Visit and comment on other participants in this prompt. Have fun with it!

Here’s a poem I posted a while back, a sestina, that combines music as a metaphor and meter.

Photo: David Slotto

Song of Songs

a Sestina

All the world’s a stage set to music.

You stroke my life like strings of Your guitar.

We’re born to fly so Your touch of gentleness

sounds a chord in my core that thrills.

Round and round You lead me in a dance—

the whirling rhythm swirls in my heart.

Rejoice, oh world; you hold grief in your heart.

Defy those who claim silence lacks all music.

Refute the clowns who refuse to dance—

Who, though called to joy, strum a dirge on their guitars.

Avoid the fool who rejects life’s thrill,

who sinks into the void with gentleness.

At dawn, mockingbird chants a song of gentleness

awakens the earth, enlivens her heart.

You stir in my Spirit-womb, Your Presence thrills.

Your promised love resounds of music,

Your hands play me as You would play Your guitar.

Our beings entwine and we enter the dance.

The earth and stars conspire to join the dance.

Ocean waves lick the sands with gentleness,

winds pluck the strings of willow tree guitars

while rain plants seeds in Earth—the Mother’s heart.

By day, the sun sings bliss—at night moon-music

plays arpeggios You designed to thrill.

I hear the door You open with a thrill,

arise to greet Your entry with a dance,

breath in the air You fill with sounds of music,

surrender to the call of gentleness,

responding to the rhythm of Your heart—

the wild beat of a classical guitar.

Submit my soul to music, the stroke of Your guitar,

Your voice, Your gentleness, never fail to thrill.

I yield to the tempo of your dance, lay down my heart.

Write2Day–Presents versus Presence

Many of us are preparing to celebrate the holidays, each in his or her own way. Winter Solstice is the 22nd (0530 U.T.), reminding us of the play of light and darkness, this being the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.

The holiday I celebrate is Christmas, the birth of Christ, even though we have no evidence as to when Jesus was actually born. The early Church took the prevailing festival of Saturn and adopted December 25th, the date midpoint in the event, in an attempt to incorporate the cultural traditions in which it found itself into its liturgical calendar.

Our world view has evolved, in part, thanks to the interconnectedness created by our Internet communities. We have become so much more aware of other traditions and thus attempt to become more inclusive. For me, this underlines how much we are alike, rather than emphasizing differences. In my lifetime experience, Christmas has become more secularized/commercialized and, for many, has lost its spiritual significance. Yet common themes of light, love, and giving remain important.

This week I was struck by a poem written by fellow blogger, Charles Mashburn. Without going into the poem itself, (I hope you will check it out) the message that struck me was the idea of Presence vs. Presents. As my own faith has matured, I see Christmas as a celebration of God, however God shows up in our lives: Presence. At the same time, I enjoy the anticipation of a child as I eye the Presents waiting under the tree and as I try to choose things that will please those I love. It’s all about giving, and receiving Love.

So, for this week’s prompt, I invite you to share your point of view about the holidays. And don’t be surprised if we encounter one or more common denominators. 

To participate:

• Write an essay, short story or poem and post it to your blog.
• Copy the URL and your Name into the Mr. Linky at the bottom of this post.
• Take a few moments to read other bloggers and comment on their work.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Kwanza, Diwali, Holidays!

The First Time

Image via Wikipedia

The First Time

The first time that I witnessed birth,
saw the crowning of the head,
that shock of thick black hair,
heard the melded cries of mother
and her son, the pain and ecstasy
in resounding dissonance,
the joy and fear and victory
of shattered boundaries—
that first time I beheld the
mystery of newborn life
I shuddered in the face of Awe.

The first time that I prayed in silence
without words or thoughts and stood
like Moses by the burning bush
that would not be destroyed and
offered (to the One who is and was
and will be) all that I have been and
am and shall become without limit
that first time I embraced
the mystery of the divine
I shuddered in the face of God.

The first time that I tasted love,
sought urgently to touch and hold,
looked into eyes that knew
my secret sacred spaces,
longed to please before receiving
pleasure, lost track of time, luxuriated
in the scent of passion,
that first time I received the mystery
of you, of all we could become,
I shuddered in the face of Bliss.

The first time I attended death
and held an old man’s icy hand and
looked into his eyes that saw beyond
me, wiped a brow expressing
nuances of sorrow and of joy,
the scope of everything we can imagine,
that first time I received a dying breath
and closed those eyes
I shuddered in the face of the Unknown.

The last time that I said hello, goodbye
I shuddered in the face of Wonder.

Come one, come all. The Pub is open for poetry and cheer at dVerse Open Link Night. Come by, bring a poem, warm up with some hot brandy and good friendship and share your work.

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

Monday Morning Writing Prompt–Mythology

Image by junibears via Flickr

From the earliest times and across cultures we had storytellers…often held in high esteem. Spoken at first, then etched in caves and finally put into written text, our stories or myths have sought to delve into the deepest mysteries: How did we get here? Who made us? Why are we here? What is the purpose of our existence?

Over the ages, our myths gave form to cultural beliefs and sometimes evolved into religions. What is sacred truth to me may be myth to you, and vice versa yet somehow we are alike in our quest for the absolute.

Comparisons of our stories show amazing similarities across cultures. Parallels in creation stories, flood myths and many others seem to live in our DNA, or, as Jung would say, in the Collective Unconscious.

For today’s prompt, let’s write–in poetry or prose–about a myth that resonates for you. You may want to include a brief process note, to share the bare bones of the story you are re-telling.

When you have posted your work, copy and paste the link to your site in Mr. Linky, then spend a few moments reading others’ works. And let’s not forget to honor and enjoy one another’s Sacred Point of View. I hope you enjoy this prompt and perhaps learn more about our stories.

Coexist–dVerse Poetics

outside the window
branches of the maple
stir in autumn’s breath

emerald green and forest
cache vermillion leaves
complement each other

differences delight
need not disdain

Today at dVerse Poetics, Brian Miller asks us to consider bumper stickers. I’m not a bumper sticker person, although I hold strong-enough opinions on certain topics. I prefer to consider the wisdom of Native American Spirituality that invites us to honor each person’s Sacred Point of View. I have found richness in many belief systems and that has only served to nourish my own.

 I hope you will take time to stop by the pub at dVerse http://dversepoets.com  to enjoy the company of fellow poets and their take on this theme.

The Cloud of Unknowing–dVerse Poetics

Image by emdot via Flickr

The Cloud of Unknowing

Who covered our valley with layers of gauzy fog?
Before me, another car edges forward.
I follow dim tail lights, hoping that somewhere ahead
another leads the tentative parade.

Last week, a mountain spanned the landscape
on the lower third of earth’s canvas.
A two-lane highway wove its way through
rabbit brush, tumble weeds tumbled. Snakes slithered.

Today I see only dim tail lights, hoping that
tomorrow I will come home.

The Cloud of Unknowing is a spiritual treatise by an anonymous medieval mystic. It advises the follower that God cannot be understood through knowledge, but rather through contemplation. Oftentimes those who live in faith have to endure prolonged periods of doubt. Having spent time in California’s Central Valley and on the coast, I always found Tule Fog and coastal fog to be an apt metaphor for life’s journey at times like this.

Today at dVerse Poet’s Pub, Brian Miller asks us to see that which cannot be seen except through the third eye. Check it out at http://dversepoets.com/

Wordsmith Wednesday–Cultivating Inspiration

Photo: David Slotto/Mt. Whitney

Originally posted May 2010.

Today I’m facing a similar situation as I prepare to leave town to attend a funeral of my cousin who died yesterday. Hope you don’t mind the repost but I’m banking on the fact that not many have read this before.

(Written after a visit to Palm Desert.)

The drive home and challenges of unpacking have prevented writing and blogging time over the last few days. However, that doesn’t mean that demands of life have the right to completely stifle the creative process. Tuning into silence, probing the Within, heightening sensory perception–all of these contribute to enrich sensory description, theme, symbolism and plot. It’s good to be home but the return to normalcy is still a ways off. In the meantime, I’ll grab a minute here, jot some notes there. And when my writing routine begins to re-emerge, I’ll have a wealth of material to turn to. Successful writing depends on cultivating awareness.

For discussion: how do you deal with writing interruptions? Does it affect your sense of well-being?

This photo is part of the inspiring view we see driving between Reno and Palm Desert (Highway 395) taken in January 2011

Spring Muse

Spring Muse
in response to the July Challenge offered by Blaga at http://brokensparkles.wordpress.com/  for which we are asked to showcase our favorites for each season of the year.

This QUOTE by Canadian author Margaret Atwood reminds me that one of the joys of Spring reentering the world of gardening—close to the Earth Mother we watch new life emerge in an array of color.

In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt. ~Margaret Atwood

Out of so many POEMS inspired by Spring, I chose this one by Katherine Mansfield because of her descriptions and personifications.

Very Early Spring
by Katherine Mansfield

The fields are snowbound no longer;
There are little blue lakes and flags of tenderest green.
The snow has been caught up into the sky–
So many white clouds–and the blue of the sky is cold.
Now the sun walks in the forest,
He touches the bows and stems with his golden fingers;
They shiver, and wake from slumber.
Over the barren branches he shakes his yellow curls.
Yet is the forest full of the sound of tears….
A wind dances over the fields.
Shrill and clear the sound of her waking laughter,
Yet the little blue lakes tremble
And the flags of tenderest green bend and quiver.

My husband and I love to watch classic MOVIES. Singing in the Rain, featuring the song and dance of Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds is one of our favorites. To me, the WORD rebirth sums up the spirit of the season. These two favorites joined to inspire this haiku.

Singing in the Rain
celebrate rebirth with joy
song dance love stories.

I turn to nature to find my favorite SONG and it is that of birds: mockingbirds, tanagers, mourning doves, all varieties of song birds. Another haiku:

Mockingbird rejoice
sun’s gentle rays awaken
greet morning with song.

I can’t resist an opportunity to promote my upcoming BOOK, Winter is Past, that celebrates hope and joy that follows a season of loss.

Chilling winter winds
give way to hope and new life
when Winter is Past.

There are so many ANIMALS that return from warmer climates, that waken after a winter hibernation, or give birth to their young during spring. Out of these, I have chosen the lamb. One year I was making an eight-day silent retreat in Greensburg, Pennsylvania, in a monastery planted in the heart of farm country. This is what happened:

On rolling hillsides
pregnant ewes give birth to lambs
dabs of white on green.

I’ve lived in many places and each TOWN, or city or rural area has their own beauty during Spring. I could write about Paris’ enchantment, Richmond’s (Virginia) azaleas, Washington D.C.’s cherry blossoms, Michigan’s tulips or Reno’s fickle spring that, some years, lasts only a few days. What I’ve come to realize is that my favorite place to be in spring is wherever I happen to be.

Stay in the moment
spring offers beauty to you
wherever you are.

In my tradition, spring is the season in which we celebrate Easter…a feast of rebirth, new life, resurrection. After the deprivation of Lent, the penitential season the helps one to prepare for this day, everyone looks forward to their favorite FOODS. For many, that’s candy.

Celebrate Easter
choc’late eggs and jelly beans
savoring sweetness.

One of my greatest joys is to see FLOWERS begin to blossom or break through the frozen soil. Among my favorite are tulips in all their many colors.

Break out of hiding
in an array of color
paint our world in joy

How can anyone summarize spring in a single IMAGE?

Feast for our senses
Sun returns to warm spirits
invites us outdoors.