Penelope Connor — ink girl poet
There are raindrops
in my coffee cup
and puddles
between my toes.
The sky is clouded
with questions and
I cannot even begin
the asking, because
I see in your stormy eyes
that you haven’t yet
captured the answers.
So, I sit watching water
pool in the bowl
of my upturned poem
and try not to slip into
the swiftly flowing stream,
that washes sand
from the place where
curb and street embrace.
—–
AUDIO FILE:
The road away from your door
will always sing a siren song.
There’s no use resisting.
So load your guitar and two
extra tires onto your bicycle.
You may miss your chance
to climb the distant tower,
but slip a stone into your pocket,
and you’ll find the right path–
one step and rock at a time.
Trees will no doubt invite you
to gaze into a magic mirror,
and renew some old promises.
Listen to the voice with the map —
it will nudge in the right direction.
Follow wings that swim circles,
and you may dance on the sand.
with an enchanting water-witch
–wet your bare toes in the scent
of rain on the summer wind.
When your bohemian feet grow tired,
gather up four corners of your heart.
Shake tangled doubt from your hair.
When you hear rhapsody on the road,
trust your voice to sing you home.
—–
AUDIO FILE:
“I am a bouquet of wildflowers and thorns, a tangle of thistle and clover, a riotous fistful of color and contradiction. I am joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain, walking the earth with bare feet, trailing the dust of a billion brilliant stars from my billowing skirts. I am wind and rain. I am the dark shadows of the forest path. I am questions and answers, confidence and anxiety, earth and sky. I am wise and naive. I am girl and mother, seductress and sage, priestess and supplicant, innocent and sinner, huntress and prey. I gather to myself the beautifully broken and breathtakingly whole, the wandering and the waiting, the tribe of souls lost and found in the desert oasis I call home. I am stained by their brilliance, soaked in their passion, I am humbled by their love. I sit in their midst, singing and silent, awed and oh, so grateful.”
—–
AUDIO FILE:
She’s a red-head, gypsy
a highway child —
with earth stains on her feet.
She’ll woo you with whimsy,
and drive you wild —
then leave you in the street.
—–
Alchemical flames
from the moment you touch her
Abandon your hope
Let go of your goal
The picture you take is all that you’ll
keep of her —
Except for the brand that she
leaves on your soul.
—–
POET NOTES:
I wrote the preceding poem for the August Postcard Poetry Festival, and mailed it off to fellow festival participant, Lucia Sanford. She replied a few weeks later, with a response poem, indicated above with italics.
Some days, the best
I can do is to breathe,
to plant two bare feet
in wet dirt and
sticky green grass,
while I turn my
face to the sky.
Some days, my
two feet are just
the beginning.
I must sit solidly
upon the earth,
feel her pulse
beneath my hands.
This day, my body
aches to lie
against her breast,
surrender to the wind.
Will you meet
me here,
come and lie
beside me
on this cool and
sacred ground?
wet toes in puddles
are a must when rain walking
Something about this–
standing barefoot on wet earth,
sets things right in my wide world.
—–
POETIC FORM:
If a haiku is usually thought of as a 3-line, 5-7-5 syllable poem, then the tanka would be a 5-line, 5-7-5-7-7 syllable poem. It’s better to think of a tanka as a 5-line poem with 3 short lines (lines 2, 4, 5) and 2 very short lines (lines 1 and 3). While imagery is also important in tanka, the form is a little more conversational than haiku, and allows for the use of poetic devices such as metaphor and personification.
—–
FORM DIAGRAM:
5-
7-
4-
7-
7-
—–
POEM A DAY APRIL 2015 – PROMPT:
“For today’s prompt, pick an adjective, make it the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. If you’re feeling stuck on this one, go back through your poems earlier this month and find adjectives you used–if any. Or crack open a dictionary. Or scan other poems for ideas.”
Pen's Ink 