Today's the first day of a 30-day poetry writing month. I'm delighted to see 170 poems written today on the theme GENTLE. Here are some of my favorites today:
"I am the potion maker’s daughter,
A collector of voices at dawn,
I am an eye over an eyeglass,
A patient ear pressed against lonely walls.
I am your regular waiter
A flower forgotten between a book -
Dry, without fragrance,
And yet somehow beautiful.
I am the chorus of tiny plants
That grace your sidewalks,
A celebrator of lazy thoughts
That walk in when you are lost.
I am a country
That’s rewriting her history for she knows
The truth was misplaced
By overfed thugs.
I am a lover more brutal
Than a Russian winter,
A juggler of languages
More voluptuous than Tarantino's tales.
I am the subway stops
you don’t stop at,
And all the women you’ve loved
I am the last rays of receding warmth
The first bite of a hungry tongue,
I am the words you miss between the lines
And the lingering sigh of a desire long lost."
"These hands shall rise,
From bottomless waters,
Bear the canoe and the oar
That will get you ashore.
These hands shall meet,
The need of caresses ungiven,
Wash your tears away with the creek
And wind the shelter and shade you seek.
These hands shall weave,
A hammock from where you gaze
At the lay of this land so far stretched
And the shimmering waves so sun-kissed.
Son, have no fear of falling
For these eyes watch over you.
Should you tumble even so,
Do not weep, a healing breeze so gentle will blow."
"maybe we could discuss this
when my tea doesn't burn my lip
and your coffee leaves a ring on the floor,
when the sun climbs higher
into the sky, and the bed is warm to the touch.
maybe you could think about this
after i've read the day's paper
and you've taken the trash out,
when the cat has lapped up the last
of the milk, and the air is warm to the touch.
maybe i could give you your answers
after i separate tomorrow from the past
and you water your words in the vase,
when the house is less an island
on stilts, and the room is warm to the touch.
maybe this will end a little while
when i cut too many holes into you
and you leave kindness at the door with your shoes,
but on mornings this slow
and gentle, the story is still warm to the touch."
ten things to do while you wait by Dhruvi Modi
look out the window.
notice the pair of boots
mysteriously strung upon
one of the electric wires
that connects us all.
yearn. yearn to feel
spring blossoms rain
gently down as nature rejoices,
even in your absence.
close your eyes,
listen to the birds.
they have things to say.
preferably on the rooftop.
drink the sky.
after a while,
muster some courage,
put your pen to paper.
let it take you elsewhere
think of memories,
fond and sour:
her first birthday with you –
how she fed you the cake
last of all –
how loved, how warm
when they told you at lunch
that someone you loved
(but did not know) had left -
as quietly as a flower blooms -
and you kept on
these memories are important.
let them remind you
of the love that courses
give yourself a hug,
a pat on the back.
breathe. let the air fill up
the tightness in your chest.
if tears arrive,
let them gently fall,
then gently wipe them
look in the mirror.
smile a kind smile."
The Writing Process (Is Not Gentle) by Eshna Sharma
Inspiration, elusive stranger
in the seconds before sleep,
in the haze after love making
making poached eggs for breakfast or walking the dog
The birthing is difficult,
it is not gentle, or elegant, or any of those beautiful things
that writing is compared to,
to push inspiration out into a tangible form
there is blood of course, torn muscles,
and men do not often like what they see,
when their wives spread apart their legs
Then, the glistening head of a newborn,
a breathing, purple tinged alien is received
the joy is boundless, but temporary, for then another struggle begins
You must nourish it
breasts may turn sore, but the beast, is not satiated easily
it demands more, it mewls and screams and there is no peace to be found
then chisel it, carve, Michelangelo's apprentice
muscles ache, sweet, salty sweat and maybe, even tears
What emerges of all that toil
of the struggle of whittling thoughts
into shape, of pruning a word here, a paragraph there,
sandpaper, sandcastles, coffee, killing time
and characters and plotlines
beauty, coal turned jewel
yet the cautious writer is never too attached to this creature of his own creation
If ever he begins to resent it,
find fault, or misstep or weakness
he discards his work, without sentimentality,
without filial affectations
and soon embarks on the long, stretched out journey of birthing another.
Follow the poems on #TheAliporePostPoetryMonth