When in the midst of a Twitter poetry party, it’s often hard to see all the twists and turns the words and lines can take. When you look at all of the assembled tweets together, it becomes much easier to see. 

Here are the next six poems from our recent Twitter poetry party. 

Fields of Red

By @llbarkat, @sethhaines, @chrisyokel, @lauraboggess, @mmerubies, @annkroeker, @meganwillome, @lwlindquist, @gmthul and @morningglorydlc. Edited by @gyoung9751.

The Cup of My Heart 

Cup my heart here.
or there.
Does it matter?
Must you find every edge
before you clasp?
But when you clasp,
when you amen the chalice,
remember that my heart
is sacred.
Hold your heart still.
I’m still gathering
the black seeds sloshing
from the cup. 

The Cup of My Heart 2

She measured one cup
of whole heart, one cup
of deep breath, one cup
of speechlessness and
one tablespoon
of just maybe.
Still atop the counter
she dove into a pool
of red wine, swam laps
until she gasped for breath.
Baker shed of apron
stripped of tutu
spins out of control
in black leotard
dances to beat
of African drums
in the dark kitchen. 

The Edge of Sunrise 

Approach my soul to the edge
of sunrise, in a shower of wet violets,
as children shimmer like roses.
On the ladder of the earth
I climbed with an overflowing cup
of wine to greet the rosy sun.

A Vine of Violets

Make a vine of violets,
braid the frail stems,
let the tongues turn
outwards and
the tiny faces emerge
warmed, brimmed,
each petal a measure
of maybe.
Make a wine of violets
blade the pale stems
let the songs turn upward
and the tiny fellow faces
begin the races.

 A Wine of Violets

Violet wine, floating yellow faces,
each whispering, “poetry, poetry.”
They whisper not “poetry poetry”
but “mind the black poppy seed
between your white teeth.”
I have a magic wand made
of violets and poppies.
I wave it toward you,
and kisses pour like wine. 

Black Pearls 

My mother always warned me
of black pearls, so I am holding
still, a marvel in ebony round;
bury the black seeds.
See what will bud–break open
the earth and reach for light.
I will bury them
with my small hands.
I will pour the choppy water
until it smoothes.
And I will climb the red blooms
from the earth.

Photograph by Claire Burge. Used with permission. Post by Glynn Young, author of Dancing Priest: A Novel

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