Cinquain # 7: Am I Here???
“To be,
Or not to be.”
I’ve borrowed this fine quote
‘Cause I have no fresh ideas
Today.
To be
Is to exist.
Then not to be must mean
The opposite: to not exist.
Sounds right.
But if
I don’t exist,
Would someone be aware?
And would anyone care that I’m
Not me???
*
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There’s still plenty of time to take part. Visit NaPoWriMo.net.
You can follow the prompts on that site or write something from your own ideas. I’m doing only cinquain this year, and writing on whatever subject suits my fancy each day.
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The poem below has a title borrowed from the English poet John Donne. It was not the title of a separate poem by Donne, but instead was a line included in his “Meditation XVII,” which was from a longer work entitled “Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions.” My poem, I hope, gives a modern view of the basic truth of the “oneness” of our human race to which he referred in his own immortal words.
A siren wails,
And in our modest town,
From one end to the next,
We hear its cry.
And though we try
To keep our focus sharp
Upon the tasks at hand,
We feel the pain.
We know the strain
Of facing hurt and fear,
Of crisis, loss, and tears,
And wonder – who?
Naught we can do,
Except to pray for God,
Who knows the victim’s name,
To give His aid.
And prayer being made,
We focus once again
On our own lives, until
A siren wails.
~~~
Ciquain # 5: Language LessonThere’s still plenty of time to take part. Visit NaPoWriMo.net.
You can follow the prompts on that site or write something from your own ideas. I’m doing only cinquain this year, and writing on whatever subject suits my fancy each day.
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To participate in this year’s poetry challenge, visit NaPoWriMo.net.
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To join the fun visit NaPoWriMo.net.
For an explanation of cinquain, visit here.
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To participate in this writing challenge, visit NaPoWriMo.net.
For an explanation of cinquain, see this post.
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This year for NaPoWriMo, I’m creating a new cinquain every day in April (or at least I’m starting out to do that. I may or may not have 30 when we’re done.) If you’d like to challenge yourself to write a new poem every day during National Poetry Writing Month, hop over to the NaPoWriMo site for some interesting information and prompts. You don’t have to follow the prompts, but they’re worth checking out in case they strike your fancy.
I’m doing cinquain because, although I generally prefer poetry forms that require rhyme and specific meter, I do occasionally enjoy writing in some of the forms that are based on syllable count. And of all those forms, my favorite is cinquain. It is also the only totally American poetic form — created by the American poet Adelaide Crapsey. She was inspired by the Japanese forms of haiku and tanka, but cinquain has its own syllabic pattern and its own unique charm. So this time around, rather than follow the NaPoWriMo prompts, I’m going cinquain all the way.
The form requires a 5-line stanza with the syllable count in each line as follows:
Line 1 — 2 syllables
Line 2 — 4 syllables
Line 3 — 6 syllables
Line 4 — 8 syllables
Line 5 — 2 syllables
The basic meter is iambic pentameter. However, there are many variations on the cinquain that Adelaide Crapsey wrote, and as with other poetic forms, each poet adds his or her own personality to the work.
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Hey, all you poets, psalmists, and songwriters out there, did you know that April is National Poetry Writing Month? Well, it is, and that means it’s time to focus on our meter, rhyme, and imagery. Maureen Thorson, of Washington, D.C., U.S.A., hosts a website devoted specifically to National Poetry Writing Month — along with a project she has christened NaPoWriMo. That project encourages participants to write a new poem every day for the 30 days of April.
Now, you can write any kind of poem you want — any form — any theme. Or you can visit her site every day to get a prompt from the project itself. The site also offers interesting material from a number of different poets, as well as links to other sites that are poetry specific.
So why not jump in and take part in NaPoWriMo this year. I generally participate, although I rarely manage to write 30 poems. But if we each write even 10 new poems in the month of April, just think how much creativity we’ve unleashed.
This year I’m doing something a little different. I love cinquain, and it is about the only form out there that is uniquely American-made. So this year, rather than follow the prompts on the NaPoWriMo site, I’m going to write a new cinquain for each day. I may borrow from the site’s theme suggestions, and I may not. We’ll have to see. But I hope a lot of you participate and post your links to your poems on the NaPoWriMo site.
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This week’s “Prompt Nights” theme is music. I planned to write a brand new piece for the challenge, but I just kept being pulled back in my own mind to a piece I wrote some time ago. I know I shared a poem I had written previously for last week’s theme as well, and I don’t usually do that on challenges. But this one little poem just keeps tugging at me tonight, so I’m going to let it have a fresh airing for this new prompt.
REQUIEM
What? You ask how was my keyboard
Torn asunder piece by piece?
I admit it was my doing:
Thought perhaps my pain ‘twould ease.
For I cannot find my music;
Cannot hear the melody.
Cannot feel the beat, the rhythm;
And, of course, no harmony.
Still, my soul keeps searching, reaching;
Won’t believe the gift is gone.
It once coursed throughout my being;
Every breath exhaled a song.
Every heartbeat set a tempo;
Notes cascaded from my mind;
Even in sleep, my dreams invaded —
Nocturnes delicate, sublime.
Now, I’ve only fleeting memories
Of creating symphonies.
Tragedy beyond my bearing:
There’s no music left in me!
~~~
“So tell me, did you kill her?”
“You doubt my innocence?”
“I’ve known you for a long time,
And certain things make sense.”
“Like what? You judge me harshly.”
“No, I just understand:
She caused you grief and sorrow,
And you’re a hurting man.”
“But, still, to think I’d kill her —
That seems a drastic act.
I could not stand much more, but
Other ways can deal with that.”
“But other ways are not sure,
Could leave you open wide
For further persecution
If she came back to your side.
“Besides, I saw the blood stains,
And they your secrets tell.
And then I found the knife that
You thought you’d hidd’n so well.”
“I see … Well, that quite grieves me
Because you’ve been my friend;
Alas, I have no other choice:
So your life, too, must end.”
“A second murder? No way;
Your guilt soon all would guess.”
“Not once they read your own note
In which you will confess.”
“You cannot make me do it.
I’ll never write the note.”
“No need. I’ll type it neatly
Once I have slit your throat.”
The moral of this story
Quite easily could be
That one who learns dire secrets
Should maintain secrecy.
(Not my usual poetry, but sometimes you just need to get out of the box.)
~
I hadn’t heard about the “Prompt Nights” writing challenge until this week. And when I saw the current prompt, I couldn’t resist taking part — since ministry in the area of healing is one of the things I do most. So I’m sharing a poem I actually wrote a few years go, but it fits this week’s prompt perfectly.
DR. JEHOVAH RAPHA
(Exodus 15:26, Mark 5:25-34)
Her brow was wet with fever,
And her body wracked with pain.
She did not know just what was wrong,
But the symptoms would not change.
She knew she needed healing,
But she had no way to pay.
Who to turn to; who to trust;
Who to show the way?
A friend said to her, “Sister,
I know a doctor kind.
He cleanses lepers, makes lame walk,
And gives sight to the blind.
In fact, He’ll take on any case,
And cure it every time.”
“Oh, would that I could go to Him,”
She then was heard to say.
“But since I do not know His name,
How can I know the way?
And even if He’d take my case,
I simply cannot pay.”
“My dear, fear not,” her friend replied;
“There is no need to fear.
I’ll take you to Him right away;
He’s really very near.
His name’s Jehovah Rapha; He’s
‘The God that healeth thee.’
And because of His Son’s precious blood,
The healing – it is free!
~~~
Visit the “Healing From Jesus” site.
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THE SACRIFICE
A crown,
A diadem,
A shackle placed upon the brow.
Bestowed
Contemptuously,
And scarlet robe on shoulders bowed.
The grief,
The agony,
The tortuous, mutilating pain.
All born
By Innocence
To give me peace and health again.
A cross,
On Calvary:
To execute the Father’s plan.
A tomb,
Now empty stands:
He’s paid the price for every man.
~
en.wikipedia.org; public domain; original artist Jean Metzinger
Miss Cordelia Underwood loved hats.
She loved them big and wide, with floppy brim.
She loved them with firm crowns and beaver trim.
She loved straw hats piled high with plastic fruit,
And to the townsfolk, those were just a hoot.
Miss Cordelia Underwood loved hats.
She wore them proudly, something like a crown.
Her favorites had flower gardens hanging round.
The taller, all the better — and as for wide —
In church no one could sit right by her side.
But Miss Cordelia Underwood loved hats.
Each brand new style and fashion caught her eye.
And nothing was too strange for her to try.
So when she saw one with propeller top,
She hurried off to Sue, the milliner’s shop.
Poor Miss Cordelia Underwood loved hats.
And that’s so sad because this story ends
With tears and sorrow for her many friends:
She donned propeller hat one windy day,
And in a heavy gust, was blown away.
~~~
♣
The Happy Wordcrafter 