Talk Thursday: Poetry And Prose

Don posted a Talk Thursday topic on Poetry and Prose. Poetry makes my heart sing. To craft a poem makes me feel complete, but I play by some sense of poetry rules. When I first hit the internet Psam introduced me to her Friday night poetry group. At the end of each session a topic would be named for the following night, usually a phrase, and the challenge would be on.

Sunday mornings back then were quiet in my house. I would wake up, pour myself a cup of coffee and sneak off to my computer and craft a poem based on the week's topic. I would endlessly read each and every line over and over, knowing that I could not move on to the next line until the former was complete. One of the poems that I crafted back in those early days remains a perfect in my heart, a window to how the wind and nature speaks to my core.

The Elementals

The morning mist sets on the moors,
above the heather wet,
and holds the light close to the ground
the moist, damp air its net.
The churning waves sent from the sea
batter the rocky beach,
the salt spray flies to meet the mist
where moors and ocean reach.
I raise my arms up to the sky
in praise, my morning rite,
drink of the day into my soul,
of salt spray, moor, and light.

The mid day sun rides on the sky
where Gulls and Petrel soar,
fields of blue, are the air and sea,
mauve, heather on the moors.
The foam peaked waves, crash to the sand
below the granite cliffs,
where churning winds, gear up to rage,
a gale wind strong and stiff.
I raise my face up to the sun,
drink in the wind and light
its strength and peace rain over me
I breathe eternal might.

The western sun has gone away,
dusk heralds in the night,
a storm brews strong upon the sea,
waves gather strength and height.
Dark churning clouds are rumbling deep,
and flash with brilliant light.
Tempest winds howl over cliff and land
and blow with all their might.
I stand and breathe the elements,
drink in the raging sight.
its pain and brute force bolsters me
in life's continual fight.

The morning mist lays on the greens,
a bonney day begins,
the birds are winging on the sky,
the bees are buzzing hymns.
The churning ocean will reach the cliffs
and kiss the basaltic rock.
The breeze will freshen on the bay,
and ruffle on the loche.
I stand in awe, in silent peace,
I bow my head to pray,
for the wind and rain, sun and mist,
I thank God, every day.

© 20 July 2000 Calista Cates-Stanturf

Talk Thrusday: Behind These Eyes

Sid thank you for a topic that really challenged me. I thought it would be easy, after three false starts I realized the error of my thinking.

Behind These Eyes

Curiosity seeks from behind these eyes
watching, peeking,
searching, seeking,
never resting,
never bored
always looking
for something more

Intelligence lurks behind these eyes
looking, reading
reaching, needing
ever soaking
ever learning
answers rife
to questions burning.

Lust smolders behind these eyes
gorging on your
hips and thighs
desiring thrust
desiring lips
oh run rampant
my fingers tips.

Wisdom grows behind these eyes
seeing, gleaning
gathering, weighing,
sagely quiet
sagely calm
learning what
to say not wrong.

Tired I am behind these eyes
working, tending,
healing, mending,
souls need
souls freed
in loving peace
I do believe.

Fulfilled I am behind these eyes
giving, laughing,
loving, breathing
sharing steps
sharing strife
memories made
on the road of life.



© 22 May 2008 Calista Cates

The Process

JulieAnn’s post this morning, and one by Natalie over the weekend has me thinking. Isn’t that what a good blog is all about, to get you thinking, hopefully outside your own personal box or deeper into your own motivations and ideals?

I consider myself a poet, I know quite bold of me. I’ve tried the poorly written American novel, as I’ve said copious times prior, “I’m not gifted with long term vision, and I can’t write by the seat of my pants.” It doesn’t mean that I don’t know what works, it just reinforces the long standing comment “Those who can’t write, edit.” I may have paraphrased something else along the way.

But I am a poet and over the years my focus has changed; hopefully my talent has evolved and grown. Eight years ago my daughter, Psam, introduced me to a Friday night poetry group. I was hooked, writing poetry and meeting each Friday night online to share, critique, and grow – it was and continues to be the drug of choice for me.

In the early days a topic was given at the end of Friday night’s workshop for the week (it still goes that way, but I usually set the topic.) Sunday morning in the quiet hours before the house awoke I would begin weaving words into metered and rhymed stanza. Sometime using the topic literally, others metaphorically.

The Elementals

The morning mist sets on the moors,
above the heather wet,
and holds the light close to the ground
the moist, damp air it's net.
The churning waves sent from the sea
batter the rocky beach,
the salt spray flies to meet the mist
where moors and ocean reach.
I raise my arms up to the sky
in praise, my morning rite,
drink of the day into my soul,
of salt spray, moor, and light.

The mid day sun rides on the sky
where Gulls and Petrel soar,
fields of blue, are the air and sea,
mauve, heather on the moors.
The foam peaked waves, crash to the sand
below the granite cliffs,
where churning winds, gear up to rage,
a gale wind strong and stiff.
I raise my face up to the sun,
drink in the wind and light
its strength and peace rain over me.
I breathe eternal might.

The western sun has gone away,
dusk heralds in the night,
a storm brews strong upon the sea,
waves gather strength and height.
Dark churning clouds are rumbling deep,
and flash with brilliant light.
Tempest winds howls over cliff and land
and blow with all their might.
I stand and breathe the elements,
drink in the raging sight.
it's pain and brute force bolsters me
in life's continual fight.

The morning mist lays on the greens,
a bonney day begins,
the birds are winging on the sky,
the bees are buzzing hymns.
The churning ocean will reach the cliffs
and kiss the basaltic rock.
The breeze will freshen on the bay,
and ruffle on the loch.
I stand in awe, in silent peace,
I bow my head to pray,
for the wind and rain, sun and mist,
I thank God, every day.
© 20 July 2000 Calista Cates-Stanturf

As the war began the surge of anger in my veins changed my weaving process; no longer could I write rhymed meter, the lilting voice abandoned me for several years. Suddenly my voice was jarring, asymmetrical, abrupt coloured black and gray and red. People began not being so entranced with my jarring work.


Requim of the Demigods

Dealers of Death sell their wares,
in the name of security and peace.
Thank the mothers of young
sacrificed on the alters of democracy,
good youths blithely thrown
after the negligent wants of old men.
Demigods whose clocks are ticking
fear no legacy in time.
Your mark spilt blood on the world
rends in the soul of humanity,
Renewed hate and ignornace.
© 21 September 2004 Calista Cates-Stanturf

While poetry comes from the heart, I don’t agree that every thing people call poetry truly is. Words must be massaged, have relationships with each other, build in to a painting that speaks to both the heart and to the soul. BTW, if you use the words heart, soul, and love in a poem be prepared to be battered, bruised and battled by academics without ability or sensibility.

Today I sit in the quiet. My metered voice has returned, but I can also write in my asymmetrical voice. The joy of poetry has returned and so has my writing. I will sit with eyes closed, a word in my head, a face in my mind, a vision for interpretation, I will write. Maybe it’s just for me; maybe some year I will actually query an agent or house for publication? Who knows? But I will continue to write, continue to share, continue to listen to the beating of the universe and interpret.

Temptations

Covet, crave consumption
my lips it taunts
dangling temptation
indulgent wants
decadent desires.

Purring pampered pleasured
oh, do I dare
dip into desire
without care
of torrid, torturing thoughts?

Terrible temptation
taste buds haunted
unsated want and need
licking flaunted
chocolate consummation.
© 29 February 2008 Calista Cates-Stanturf

Sith,
Cele

Talk Thursday - Love Made Visible

Love Is

Love is not seen,
Love is all seeing.
Blind to the faults
Suffers the way of the world
The bend of the heart,
And the want of the head.

Love is not a physical body,
Love lightens the body,
Making the heart beat faster
The head swim in wonder
The feet skip in glory
And hands entwine at touch.

Love is not a sense,
Love is an onslaught against the senses
Making birds sing sweeter
Bees buzz louder
Amusing both heart and head
Days kissed by the sun.

Love breathes not itself
Yet Love is the breathe of life
Lightening the huff to a sigh
Quickening the sigh to a pant
Softening the cry to a moan
Evoking awes of delight.

Love is not a space
Nor is love a place
But it fills the soul
Answers the heart
Makes us whole
And leaves us lonely when its gone.

Love is
divinely unique,
a joyous,
splendid,
irresponsible
act of faith.

© Calista Cates – Stanturf 2008

Talk Thursday - Center Of Your Longing

Last night I let JulieAnn know she was tagged for Talk Thursday, just as last week Enlightened Faery had let me know I was it. I wondered, and feared a little, what JulieAnn would do. Wow, I was blown away by her post Ravings of a Mad Woman . Incredible. Now I am doubly afraid.

The need to write lyrical, metered, rhyme dwells deep inside me. I consider myself a poet. To lay down the words that make others dream, feel the wind on their face, the sea and sand beneath their feet drives me, the elements beating their tattoo in time. The simplest word or phrase will lodge itself in my brain, becoming the rhythm of my day until I write it down, let it grow, expanding into line, verse, and stanza. The meter will awaken me in the dark of night, when other mortals sleep, and hound me until I write it down.

In the tired night my prayers will be broken by a line, a set of lines, until I say my Amen and get up to write it down. Woe to me if I ignore my muse, the whispered voice in my brain, repeating over and again the words that will not let me be. Dare not roll over for slumber deep, for by morning’s tide I will have long forgotten the rhyme to be nagged by the knowledge there was once something there that longed to be and I ignored.

To lay the words that move you to tears is the center where my longing is born. To be the kind hand that pens the lines that captures your world and thoughts. The ideas and hope that makes your heart sing and believe again. That is the center of me. To bring you the wind in your hand, the thunder in your heart that matches the sound of sky and sea, that is the center of me.

The Elementals

The morning mist sets on the moors,
above the heather wet,
and holds the light close to the ground
the moist, damp air it's net.
The churning waves sent from the sea
batter the rocky beach,
the salt spray flies to meet the mist
where moors and ocean reach.
I raise my arms up to the sky
in praise, my morning rite,
drink of the day into my soul,
of salt spray, moor, and light. .

The mid day sun rides on the sky
where Gulls and Petrel soar,
fields of blue, are the air and sea,
mauve, heather on the moors.
The foam peaked waves, crash to the sand
below the granite cliffs,
where churning winds, gear up to rage,
a gale wind strong and stiff.
I raise my face up to the sun,
drink in the wind and light
its strength and peace rain over me
I breathe eternal might.
The western sun has gone away,
dusk heralds in the night,
a storm brews strong upon the sea,
waves gather strength and height.
Dark churning clouds are rumbling deep,
and flash with brilliant light.
Tempest winds howls over cliff and land
and blow with all their might.
I stand and breathe the elements,
drink in the raging sight.
it's pain and brute force bolsters me
in life's continual fight.

The morning mist lays on the greens,
a bonney day begins,
the birds are winging on the sky,
the bees are buzzing hymns.
The churning ocean will reach the cliffs
and kiss the basaltic rock.
The breeze will freshen on the bay,
and ruffle on the loch.
I stand in awe, in silent peace,
I bow my head to pray,
for the wind and rain, sun and mist,
I thank God, every day.

© 20 July 2000 Calista Cates-Stanturf