Flight Of Write

Flight. 

To.  From. 

Up. Down. 

Of fancy.  Or narrative.  

Of birds.  Of imagination. 

Of the mind.  Wings.  Turbo-chargers.

This is your prompt for today.  Flight.  Flightless. 




Fight or.  With the greatest of ease.  (Or not.) 

I include some of my drawings.  Don’t feel compelled to use them, but if you do, please give credit to Karin Gustafson.

Just enjoy the writing of your own and your fellow travelers/passengers/aviators.  

(PPS -  sorry I have been so absent.  An overwhelming time.) 

Weekend Mini Challenge - In the Market for Poems

I love markets - that is, I love food markets. (I kind of hate shopping for anything else.) 

One reason I thought of today’s prompt is because I recently took a trip to Oaxaca, Mexico and was lucky enough to take pictures of some markets around Oaxaca, which I thought would be fun to post.

Here's the poetic aspect of the prompt:

So much of life is an exchange.  Every choice is a bartering of one alternative with another.  Even a conversation is an exchange; even a breath.  Sometimes in these exchanges one tries to sell something concrete, sometimes one tries to sell an idea, sometimes, one's self or one's image of one's self. 

Sometimes people become a little bit like the things they sell (in the way that people sometimes begin to look like their dogs.)  Or they become a little like the things they buy. 

Then there’s the whole idea of marketing--how people might strive for attention for themselves or their product.  (Or not.)  

So, how does this translate into today's poem? 

Consider some kind of bargain, exchange, purchase, promise. It can be an exchange or promise made by or to you, or by or to some one or something else. (It does not have to have anything to do with a true sale, direct promise, and it certainly doesn't have to do with a food market.)

 Alternatively, think of some way in which a person, thing, relationship, country, world has been molded by a barter or exchange.

Or think of exchanging places with someone or something.  You could also use a formalistic poetic exchange--by, for example, writing a poem using homonym or rhyme (each which is rather like the exchange of one word for another that sounds the same).

Or if you like simply think of some market place.

But please keep in mind that the poem does not have to deal with any market at all!  Here's a pic that's not from Mexico, but of my beautiful granddaughter.  Still, it seemed to fit the topic of exchange so well, I could not resist including it. 

So, here we go, Toads!  And as part of the wonderful exchange of ideas that goes on here--read the posts of your community poets! 

Two final points.  All rights are reserved in the pics here.  I offer for inspiration but not for use (as I don't feel I have a full panoply of permissions from the persons photographed.)

And then, in the interest of my own self-marketing, I am made bold to mention that I’ve just come out with a new book, a children’s novel (that is also great for adults), called Dogspell - or Sally & Seemore & the Meaning of Mushki.  Please check it out, especially if you have ever been under the spell of a beloved dog!

Weekend Mini-Challenge - Trying "No More"

There are certain poems that just stick with me; even my half-sleep mumbles bits of lines.  One of these is “So We’ll Go Nor More a Roving,” by Lord Byron (George Gordon). 

So We'll Go No More a Roving

So, we'll go no more a roving 

   So late into the night, 

Though the heart be still as loving, 

   And the moon be still as bright. 

For the sword outwears its sheath, 

   And the soul wears out the breast, 

And the heart must pause to breathe, 

   And love itself have rest. 

Though the night was made for loving, 

   And the day returns too soon, 

Yet we'll go no more a roving 

   By the light of the moon.

What I especially love about the poem is its simplicity and its music.   Well, what I especially love is its simple and musical capture of something universal--change/loss--and its willingness to simply sing the change/loss without over-explanation (although the middle stanza does give you a sense that roving may continue without the "we.")

“No more” is a common concept in poetry; it can refer to loss, but also to vindication, release.

Above is a wonderful rendition of “Hit the Road, Jack!” by Ray Charles and his back-up singers; below the first stanza of an earlier prototype by Shakespeare from Much Ado About Nothing:

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh nor more;

    Men were deceivers ever;

One foot in sea and one on shore,

    To one thing constant never;

        Then sigh not so,

        But let them go,

    And be you blithe and bonny;

Converting all your sounds of woe

    Into. Hey nonny, nonny.

(Shakespeare also has a more somber "no more" in Hamlet--"to die; to sleep;/No more....")

The idea of "no more" is also present in many war poems and protest poems.  (I just found this one by Phillip Larkin, MCMXIV.)

And, of course, "no more" can refer to quantity--Whitman uses the idea in a very interesting way in the beginning of "Song of Myself:"

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
 
(And don't forget Poe's Raven.)

Your task today, poets, if you choose to accept it--is to spend a little time thinking about “no more.”  You do not need to use the actual words in your poem--although you certainly can--just write something that springs from the idea, whether nostalgically, eligiacally, gleefully, viciously-- 

A supplemental aspect of the prompt is to use some kind of rhyme or meter like Byron or Shakespeare that might allow you to "sing" your "no more. " (In other words, you could write your "no more" in four, using quatrains, like Byron.)  But this rhyming  aspect is absolutely alternative--don't feel any requirement.

And for the requisite little animal drawing--here is a picture from a little book I'm doing about a dog named Seemore, who would rather rove beneath a cheese than moon.

Thanks. 

In The Remains of This Month (April!)

Above is a fragment of a Buddhist sculpture, which I post thinking of one of my favorite poems in the world, also about the fragment of a sculpture (but a Greek one.)  That poem is Rainer Maria Rilke’s Archaic Torso of Apollo (translated by Stephen Mitchell). In the poem, Rilke describes how the remains of the statue embodiy all the bits that are missing--the head, the eyes, the curls, the stare.  The last line of the poem - “you must change your life” - somehow encapsulates the integrity of the broken statue; and to me, urges change both because of the example of some high standard of classical beauty, but also because of a realization of the ephemeral quality of time.   (PS - I don’t mean to oversimplify the poem here, as honestly, I think it says a whole bunch of things.) 

Whenever one visits a museum, and especially if one is interested in art of other times, one sees many pieces that are the remains of themselves--fragments of sculptures or vases or mosaics.  This word “remains” has many connotations in English--the remains of a sculpture, the remains of a person, the remains of the day, the remains of a relationship, even just the remains of a meal (as in, leftovers!)



I ask you on this 16th day of this crazy month of April to write something that stems from this word--remains, remaining, remainder--  and I post pictures of sculptures I have taken or pieces that seem to me to be remains of some kind.  (Feel free to do an ekphrastic poem and certainly to use your own pictures.) 

PLEASE view this prompt as widely as possible.  You do not have to use the word "remain" or "remains" in your poem.  You can write directly of something related to remains (or one of these pics).  But I am perfectly happy if you write about gas mains!   Just use the prompt and a picture (if you like) as something to jump off of. 

And have a good time!  Visit your friends too, if you want to remain friends!   (Please note that I will be traveling today and attending a sad family event so may be delayed in commenting.)

Also, I'm sorry not to identify the pics better--they were all taken by me, some at the Met Museum, and I don't have very good notes of them.  (If there's one you particularly like, I'll try to figure it out.)  Some, of course, were not taken at the Museum.  One is from the 9/11 Memorial in downtown NYC,

Finally, thanks to Kerry for arranging this crazy month, and for all the support of those participating and not! 

Still Getting Out of the Starting Gate - April Poetry Month Day 2

April Poetry Month Day 2 and it's Manicddaily/Karin Gustafson here (unfortunately also known as Outlawyer) and I'm suggesting horses.  A horse!  (So beautiful!) Anything even remotely equine! (The smell of leather?)

I love horses, though I've hardly ever ridden.  So, I'm hoping nearly everyone has some memory, association, fantasy, involving a horse, whether the horse is saddled between their legs, made of pink plastic and purple maned, or trotting around some distant background.



So, for today, let some equine association get you out of of the starting gate. Keep in mind that the horse portion of your poem can be very peripheral.  (There could simply be an off-track betting salon down the street, a cave painting--as set forth above--a knee-high boot, a horseshoe, some Monty Python coconut shells.)

Also, frankly, the purpose of these April posts is to help you get writing if you're stuck. If you have a second day of April poem, please feel free to link it here even if it has remarkably little to do with horses.





Whatever!  Just run with what you've got.  Have fun, and try to make a little time to visit other poets.

BTW, the pics are watercolors and ipad illustrations made by me. (I’m not so great at horses but just like them.)  Feel free to use, but please credit to Karin Gustafson. Thanks!

Sunday Mini-Challenge Flying From Orlando to Picasso

Hi Toads,

Manic-D-Daily here, flying from a week at a tax law conference in Orlando, Florida--meaning that I am feeling completely faked out.  Blank.  Flat.  (Also fat.)

In the midst of clouds (the sky’s and mine), I have been thinking about the artificial.  If you know anything about Orlando, Florida, you will understand why this is on my mind.  All I can say is that while this town of theme parks is supposed to be fantastical, it always seems to me more plastical--

To be fair, I have not been to the theme parks for many many years. Even so, during this last week, I have felt surrounded by a lot of strange constructs--from the laser show at the hotel’s pretend islanded/pretend water-falled pool to a bunch of convoluted techniques for reducing tax liability.  (The worst of it, for me, honestly, was the food--note to self: avoid just about anything that comes in an "individual serving pack," unless that "pack" is a peel.) 

And now I am moving--clouds are a great relief--from the artificial to the idea of artifice.

Artifice is a strange word.  Certainly, it has negative connotations, often carrying the idea of falsity or insincerity.  But artifice also refers to stratagems that are marked by the ingenius, the artful, the clever (tools that any artist may wish to have in her or his arsenal.)  

Which has led me to think about the differences between good artifice and fako artifice; and this in turn has led me to a vague notion that good artifice reveals the real (even, in an odd way, gives us the real) while bad artifice conceals, congeals, and confiscates the real.  (As in, I still have a truly icky taste in my mouth from the weirdo peanut butter licked from an individual serving pack this morning during a lecture on defined benefit plans!) 

So, what does this mean in terms of a prompt? 

Think about the real. It can be a moment in which you, he, she, it, or they understood that something--life, a relationship, some kind of effort--a war or peace, a loss or a struggle--was not a game. 

Or, think simply about some real thing---a rock, a banana.  (Something concrete but please, not concrete!  Poor Florida is covered in concrete.)

Or some version of the real that consists simply of a moment of true presence, for example, a night  in which one, walking with one's child, actually stopped to see stars.

Now, think about conveying that realness in some palpable if not necessarily realistic way.  That is, with the artifice of craft.  This artifice/ingenuity, could be a traditional poetic device, such as rhyme, meter or form--but it could also just be an artful juxtaposition, a leap or a blank, a particular choice of detail or metaphor, or your uniquely clunky (or graceful) voice.

Ahem - so, what's the prompt again?  

To write of something real, but not necessarily to write realistically, literally, or even grammatically.  (I keep thinking of E. E. Cummings here--who wrote some very real love and real political poems with all kinds of mash-ups,  I strongly recommend looking at any of his poems to get out of a rut.  But there are a zillion other more contemporary examples-- Robert Bly, and his use of metaphor in My Father's Wedding; or an interesting U.S. poet C.D. Wright, who died in the last week - "Everything Good Between Men and Women", )   Of course, if you want to just write of something real and not worry about the artifice part, that is fine--for myself, I would like to open the box a little. 

Which brings me to the Picasso sculpture show at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.  (That's where all the pics are from.)  My photos of the show aren't great (and sadly give a very limited idea of the breadth of the show, since I only took my camera out in a couple of rooms).  Picasso's sculptural style, like his painting style, went through a host of transformations (not shown here), and he used a zillion different materials--from found objects--like the bits of a iron stove that make up the woman and child above, to cardboard, bronze, flattened metal sheets, and little etched pebbles.

Some of the most intense pieces, such as the man with the goat above, and the next group below,  were done during World War II, when Picasso stayed in Paris, though he was viewed extremely negatively by the Nazis and his work was banned as degenerate.  As a result, he had to make the plaster pieces for the bronzes in his small bathroom. (Note that I have a couple different views of the skull.) 

I bring up Picasso's work because it gets to something so very real, and yet it is also so full of artifice.

I post more pics below--feel free but not obligated to use them in your piece;  if you do, please give credit both to Picasso and I suppose you can identify me as photographer as well.  (Ha--my only chance ever to be paired with Picasso!)

I’m sorry if this prompt feels vague--my intention is to be broad, and to encourage you and my very blank self to get back to some expression of the genuine.  (Hopefully, I can keep it in my pocket for use during one of possibly many trips into the world of the artificial.)

Please, as always, visit your virtual (yet also very real) compatriots in this craft. 

Thanks.