Love in Ten Lines

Small-Blue-RGB-National-Poetry-Month-Logo

April is celebrated as NPM by the Academy of American Poets, among other groups. Use #npm15 to connect w/like-minded folks.

Well, cruelly or not, here it is April already. Happy National Poetry Month (more details on this in a later post)!

As for a poetics of the personal, I was asked almost a fortnight ago by fellow writer and friend Sarah Potter to wax poetic on the subject of love, following certain parameters and with strictures that I still managed to both tangle and mangle, for the “Love in Ten Lines Challenge.” You’ll have to forgive me on several fronts. I’m steadily pedaling back up to speed on blogging—both writing and reading/commenting—after a bout with spring sinusitis that decided to invite my eye in for the party. I’ll spare you further allergological details (in any case, they happened after I’d written these two poems anyway).

Briefly, here are the rules of the 10-line love challenge:

  • 10 lines only, on love.
  • “Love” must appear in each line.
  • Each line must be exactly 4 words.
  • Include a quote about love (it can be your own quote).
  • Use any language you choose.

As grateful as I was to be invited, no obligations attached, by Sarah to take part in this challenge, I’m a little rowdy with the rules, I guess. I’m supposed to formally invite other bloggers to take part, but I feel as if I’d be imposing on y’all if I call out specific people, even though I do have several of you in mind. But everyone is so busy. That said, if you’d like to take part in this challenging premise, I informally welcome you. Then we can probably just call it a free-verse free-for-all.

Finally, who doesn’t like a good word brawl with one’s language every now and again? (Even if you get a bit of a black eye, as I feel I have here . . .)

A Museum of Moments

Love, my heart’s Braille,

written for unseen loves,

suitors untailored for love,

in love with veils,

of ragged things unloved.

gagged love, silken bonds

fixed fast. Everyone loves.

We covet coursing love-

blood. Strange museum, love:

where we all sight-see.

Beloved Dust

My little loves, fay

folk, loved beyond mortal

measure. Love carves us

out of softwood. Love

chips love away, shapes

each love in fashion.

Shavings, sharp edges; love

leaves behind even love

itself sometimes. Love sears

into each beloved grain.


Oh, a final finally. The quotes!

“Love is not love/
which alters when it alteration finds.” (Shakespeare, Sonnet 116)

and, for more on fissile or weathered love, we have the Peter Gabriel lyric:

“. . . In lovetown,
I can’t settle down.
And do those teeth still match the wound?
Take a good look around
In lovetown.” (from “Lovetown,” available on the 2-CD release “Hit” [disc two of which is called “Miss”])

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Bivalve’s Love Song: Chimera 66 #5

(In Honor of, and with Simultaneous Apologies to, Valentine’s Day)

 

Oyster photo-bivalve-Flickr user swamibu

Oysters are the very definition of protean, beginning life as plankton and then becoming hard-shelled organisms able to change sex at least once per lifetime (photo by Flickr user Swamibu.)

 

From a temperate boudoir she comes,

fused with metamorphic rock.

You slaver to rasp slaty cleavage

with ravening tongue—

exploring textures.

It might be gneiss

to possess such a hybrid.

Highest bride,

whom I pried

from vinegar rest-bed,

for her “delicate, toothy texture”

and briny liqueur.

But sink this deeply into keratinized mind:

Being so caught up,

she has you shut in her

fickle flesh, adducted.


Inspired by Grammar Ghoul’s Chimera 66 #5 writing prompt. The prompt was oyster, and it probably helps to read the links I’ve provided above and here, unless you have a really good memory from high school biology on bivalves and other sea life (or, obviously, if you’re a marine biologist). Hope you enjoyed this innuendo-, entendre-, and pun-filled (semi-) writing departure; you might still have time to get yours done. The deadline is today (Friday), and there are great writers there already! Where are you?

MORE SOURCES & INSPIRATIONS:

On the Eastern oyster

W.B. Yeats, “Leda and the Swan”

And, finally, you might as well take a little trip back with gender-bending father Tiresias (who has “crossed the poles”); excuse the boring graphics–but the audio seems good except for clipping off the very end of the instrumental, which leads inexplicably into “Supper’s Ready” despite them being on different albums

 

Daily Prompt: Winston Churchill in Drag?

Foxtrot72-albumcover

Let’s take a little trip back . . .

Appropriately, it’s evening-time, but I can’t see the sun sinking.

I’ve been in the room for hours, and delirium has taken me in its needle-toothed mouth. Every now and again it shakes me like an overzealous pup with a rope toy.

Amid shrill screams and attendants entering and leaving, I warble. And recite chapters in the book on medical coding that I’m currently editing.

“Winston Churchill,” I begin, off-tune. I’m certain the people in neighboring rooms are freaked by my shrieks and shocked by the absurd lyrics.

Genesis had yoked me—or should I say yolked me—to the birthing bed. Instead of real epidurals to soothe me, I chose music. Specifically progressive rock and roll music.

Such is the story of my life: at crucial points along the way, a song, album, musician, or band has entered stage left. And there in the limelight, I merged with the music, and it patched me up so I could pitch battle again.

Today, as the wife of a musician, I can’t avoid music. Not that I’d want to. It’s constantly in my ears and in my eyes and, as such, flares up persistently in my writing.

Naturally, a strong musical memory comes courtesy of my husband, who wrote a classical piece for me when we were courting, lo those many years ago. But I also owe a life-debt to musician and humanitarian Peter Gabriel. His popular ’80s tunes sledgehammered my sensibilities, shocked me with their grooves, and mercifully nestled in my neurons, big-time.

Then, as I made my way along and my existence complexified itself, I gravitated to the ground: to dig in the dirt, more specifically.

Finally, going zigzag through time, I arrive at what is, in my opinion, the zenith of prog-rock music. That golden period from approximately 1969 to 1981. And at the sweet chocolate-surprised center of that musical box lies one of my favorite bands: Genesis.

I’m not normally much interested in most celebrities, but I think it would be quite something to meet Mr. Gabriel. Other than in dreams, that is. (I once saved him from being trapped in a warehouse; I guess I was returning the favor.)

Now, fly away you sweet little thing, they are hard on your tail. Or hadn’t you heard?

This aforestory was written for the WordPress Daily Prompt. Please go there and follow the links to enjoy others’ musical reveries.