Posts Tagged ‘poem’

looking at poem

l o o k i n g   a t   p o e m
nose nose.  mirror close.
smell poem’s breath.  poem
breathes mine.  steam reveal,
fingers paint.  inhale, lay
motionless.  awake,
disguised under sheets.
poem inside, doesn’t sleep.
here, feel, dusty feet.
cat leaps onto bed.  unfed, leaves.
some poems too, closing their eyes.
mother father, child.  reflection bears
no fault.  if you had a thousand eyes
that’s exactly who I’d be for you.
language contains this bowl.  monarch
wings.  see how they heel counter
compass into lofted wind.  see
how poem measures itself.  knotted
twine that holds the sway.
some other sail, bent, bitten word.
what calls itself, newmoon face.
poem, mirror, me.
and when it stands alone, one breath,
the way wind breathes on leaves

neil reid © 2014 february

maybe possibly the first in a group, not so much “progressive” but looking to say what this poem really wants to really say. ie. if a poem could speak, what would it want to say? (without my help to stir up the mud)

go see the WWP prompt, if for nothing else save the video included.
about poems, about you

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h e r e

here’s the poem that’s in my fingertips.

here’s the poem that does it right, regardless
of any self doubts, in fact, allows your very own
experience to bloom in a way you’d thought
before impossible.

notice your part, the lines you write.

here’s the dog that greeted you today, that
unabashedly leaned into your hands, that
poured life into you from its’ own willing wet

here’s the poem you didn’t expect to read.
yet you did.

here’s the meal you thought was lost.

here’s the kernel, the seed of corn.

here’s the coat when cold, the hat when
it rains.  here’s the shoes, here your feet.

then somebody says, here, I gotta show you this.
and it’s like rain, the same everywhere everywhen,
but it’s not.  the face is different now.

it looks like you looking me.

here’s the weeds you forgot to pull.
we are not a matter of beliefs.

even when we turn our backs
here remains.

neil reid © december 2011

And here, a poem I won’t explain.

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untitled dream number one

untitled dream number one


this is it.  this is drowning.
the pastel movie beneath the marque.

there was uncle bob who survives adventures,
then one day just died anyway.  there was crazycat
who ate chocolate and lived.  there were swimming
lessons and a first kiss, both late by the calendar.
there were silent mean streets that did no harm, and
a bee wearing a flower stinging grandma janet’s nose.

it’s a matter of how much water you can breath.
whether or not this summer heat will make tomatoes
blush.  then again there was the late autumn when
a boy’s steadfast care salvaged the life of a cat
like no adult could muster to do.

a matter of surrendering.

and how do we know when a poem ends?


neil reid © october 2011

Nothing serious. Some color. Some this, some that. Cleansing thoughts of words with words (crazy huh!). Also sort of like notes done out loud, and you’ll carry them now for a while won’t you please, and so I don’t have to for a while. Nothing serious, like I said.

Do we trust the barebones truth of meditations?

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Someone is expecting me

Someone is expecting me

(however after 3 AM it’s not a poem!)
I’ll probably let them down.

The alternatives are sideways, up, in or out, so going with gravity seems some charmed – down it is then!  Might as well.  Sure I’ll get there eventually.

Were we really looking for the easiest passage?  Really, all smooth, no storms, nearly becalmed?  No ice?  Maybe this time we could fend it off with our feet.  Seems fair seems right.  Wouldn’t you, if you were god?

A dollop past 2 AM, but please, don’t mention food.  We’re speaking, although it’s from different rooms.  And where’s the night that isn’t night yet?  Thought by now I’d have slept that far.  Miles are hard to gauge in sleeping dreams.

Someone’s expecting me to finish this poem.  I can hear you breathing.  “I know, just wait”, you say, “see, he won’t finish the job, leave us on the far side without a boat.”  But I think it’s in my other pants, side pocket, second shelf.  Not here.

All I got is this pen, and some of it spilled.
neil reid, august 2011

It’s 3 AM. I’m away from home. Away also means, what’s familiar? What’s a poor poem to do to stick up for itself? No matter what!… poems go on.

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prompt # 027
H e a l i n g
by staff@wwp
Read the full prompt and poem responses by other participants.

Write a poem that heals.    So states the prompt:

This means directly, immediately. Mind, that we’re not asking you to write “about” healing. Rather, look for and allow the poem to be healing in and of itself. We acknowledge this may not be an easy prompt. Maybe you’ll look, you’ll write and not feel you have reached where you want to go, not completely. That’s alright. Consider it a beginning.

In preface I’ll only say, only ask, that you take this poem at face instruction.
It is intended for you to read it aloud.  ~neil

Read this poem aloud

This is a healing poem.

Read this poem aloud.

Meaning is in what we pronounce.

Let us say what we mean to be.

Sky is inside this poem.

Doubt falls like rain falls.

We lay together, water soaking in.

River is filled, swallows us whole.

Sun, moon, we hold these mirrors.

Child, let us open our hands.

Every breath knows the possibility

of pain. And. Every breath heals.

Hold nothing more than a moment.

Mother, hold us to your breast.

Wise sayings heal nothing.

Saying does. Speak to me.

Feel your voice make waves.

Inside of you. Into the lips of air.

Feel the vibration spreading.

Listen. Beloved, feel our voices.

All movement is one motion.

More than mere sum, it is one.

Read this poem with your voice.

What you say has meaning here.

Read this poem aloud.

This is a healing poem.

neil reid © november 2010

Process journal:
This was a particular challenging prompt to address. It is one thing to engage thoughts and write “about” healing, but a whole other animal, one that is a real and living thing, to write a poem that directly intends to produce healing. How ever does one do that?

I considered some my own thoughts and feelings about doing this, then also did some searching and reading on the topic. In that second regard it became quickly clear that such study would become a whole second career. And I didn’t really feel study of that sort was going to answer the question for me, not personally, of how to do this seemingly improbable thing. That meant I would need to rely on primarily what I already could sense, my own experience, and what some meditative regard would suggest to me. (That’s what you have in this poem here.)

The clearest sense that arrived for me is simply stated in the poem’s title – read this poem aloud. Not meant as any poetic “device” or art of “craft”, but directly as a means of creating energy and movement. Illness tends to pull a person inside themselves. Illness tends to reduce the ability to see, reduce movement and outward participation. So healing is then encouraged by movement outwardly and more awareness of self at a very elemental level of engagement. That was the key realization for me in the process of looking itself as well.

Does this poem accomplish that? First answer is, I don’t know. Yet if you ask, here, this is my answer today. I do feel at least for me that poems are about more than merely craft or some art for only art’s sake. I would like them to have more meaning than only that. And this is about as directly physical as I know how to write a poem addressing this improbable yet intended result. It is what it is.

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