Poems under Pressure

​I joined a poetry writing group this Spring.  Something I’d never done before.  I thought it was a learning group where my writing would be edited and critiqued, as the woman running it is a successful publisher and writer, but I was wrong.
 
Each 90 minute session, I joined 11 other poets on zoom, all from the USA.  The facilitator read a poem, which she shared on screen.  Then a quick one line prompt was offered and you were off, 10 minutes to write a poem in response to the one you’d heard.  I honestly didn’t think I would be able to do this.  For me, every poem I write just comes to me from somewhere, usually when I’m out in nature.  I’m just holding the pen. 
 
But here I was, so I had to have a go.  My first few attempts weren’t brilliant and the caliber of these poets was something else, many of them published many times.  I read my attempts out, almost cringing.  But these lovely men and women, were humble, helpful, honest and happy to have me on board.
 
Some were writing about grief, some about awful things in the news, some about nature.  Some poems were shocking, some were funny, all were worth listening to. Sometimes I felt I was in the presence of genius, often-times I wished I’d studied poetry or literature at University, not that I didn’t study poetry and drama and take many performance exams as a youth, but their understanding of construct and usage of words was informed and inspiring.
 
Some of what I wrote will be worked on in the future, some will be consigned to the bin.  But every poem I listened to and every poem I wrote had value.  I learned a lot. 
 
I learned to reserve judgement.  I learned that I’d like to learn more.  I learned that practicing writing rather than waiting for it to arrive yields results. 
 
And – it gave me 90 glorious minutes of me time every week for 4 weeks. 
 
So – here are a few of the poems I wrote under pressure, just as they arrived!  I’ve leave it to you to reserve judgement!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Shadow
 
And yet is that a ragged moon I see
silvering the dark?
Some echo of a sun from ages past
falling on a path I cannot see?
 
And am I brave enough to travel?
To pass between the rocks of my resistance?
 
Oh forward, forward fool and meet
your own existence
and when your shadow follows
turn and face it –
 
and watch it disappear.
 
 
Too full.
 
I am too full to let another in.
 
‘No room at the Inn’
we hear the sorry tale of segregation
and so I turn to Rumi
who welcomes one and all into his guesthouse.
 
But I am full to overflowing
with all my thoughts
and my intentions,
with my own hopes and dreams
and far too busy,
too wrapped in my beliefs
and my own stories to see
the gifts outside my door.
 
The presents all those people I do not know
are carrying.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Lessons
 
There is a clarity in what I seek
And yet I cannot seem to find the words
to illuminate my way –
 
I stumble through excuses,
Snaring my limbs on barbs of old
Floundering along paths
laid firm in childhood.
 
And images,
Like the ones I used to find in clouds
Press down on me.
Dragons, Castles, dark and looming
And my parents’ voices droning in the front
As wheels wasted miles.
 
It’s there, the thing I seek
Have always sought.
And yet it will remain just out of reach
Until I can let go of lessons that you taught.
 
 
Found
 
It’s a small thing,
A cup of coffee in a special cup,
A bag of beans taken from the fridge
And swoosh, the cold air as I shut the door,
The clatter, patter of the beans as I pour
The rich dark into the chamber
The smell, ah the smell alone
can soften me.
 
The satisfying press of button,
The loudness of the grind
And the dog barking at the sound.
 
And then the magic,
The measuring of velvet into the pot,
The pouring of the hot, not boiling, water.
 
The cultivating of patience as it steeps,
Forcing myself to wait five minutes long.
 
I watch the milk heating in the pan,
Frothing around the edges,
 
And now,
Finally the moment’s here.
 
Set up the tray,
The sugar in the matching bowl
And the pretty little jug.
 
The coffee plunger sinking slowly into treasure.
 
And now I pour.
 
 
Gone
 
Father, brother, sister, mother
Gone
Gone into the abyss of memory
and disagreement.
 
Don’t
Don’t stand too close
Lest you lose your balance and in you’ll go
Gasping and flailing as if in poisoned gas.
 
Best leave well alone,
These wartime memories should stay buried.
 
 
Pilgramage
 
Where do we learn the lessons?
Out there?
Wandering in some God-forsaken landscape?
Or chewing over old passages
As dust motes circle ‘neath high windows?
 
Where do we think through truths?
In other people’s memoirs?
 
No.
 
Stay home, stay home.
 
Close the lid on the world
Shred the newspaper.
Feed the cat
and watch it sleep.
 
There,
There,
It’s all there.
 
 
 
Untitled
 
On the other side
I found myself awake
when I was sleeping
 
and striding into the dawning dark
I saw the stars collide and
fall out of the sky.
 
I shrugged,
dodged the stars,
and watched
as they dissolved in puddles.
 
 
The fires we light to see more clearly
 
As one we rose
And nose to tail we
walked toward the neon sign.
 
We stood in line
face down
intent upon our screens
from which all knowledge streamed.
 
As one we waited for the morning flare
The all-consuming glare
As windows opened
And shone upon the faithful.
 
And silently we scrolled
A million separate beings
Lost in the maze of algorithms
Yet known, one and all
by Amazon.
 
 
 
 
 
So much happiness
 
And bending low and slow
(for her youth was long lost
 in the wrinkles of time)
She touched the ticket
The golden ticket
lying in the gutter ripped,
which
meant it too had had a journey,
been punched and screwed and
dropped and stood upon,
and yet it had survived
and kept it’s golden hue.
 
She straightened,
Ticket now creasing within her closing fist.
She felt the shape of it
The serrated edges
The torn middle.
 
And smiling,
she walked on,
Tucking a strand of faded gold
Behind her ear.
 
 
 
Ecstasy
 
Is it in the search or in the finding?
Is it in the peak or in the climbing?
Is it in the bell or in the chiming?
Is it in the sigh or in the
 
Blinding, crashing, roaring,
howling, writhing, searing,
pulsing, emptying, dying
of the deed.
 
Sex indeed,
I ask you
 
Who’s it for?