A Twitter poetry party takes some interesting twists and turns, even with prompts. (In our most recent jam, the prompts were all taken from The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems by Pablo Neruda). (Just for the record, we used the edition with the red cover.) Some participants can get caught up with an image and pursue it, while others will key from the tweets of others. Some follow the prompts faithfully, while others will wonder what the prompts are. 

But it’s all great fun. 

Below are the next seven poems from our jam.

Fields of Red

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

Drum the golden thread 

Drum the gold thread,
beat it flat,
until it becomes a bridge
to velvet Africa.
Beat words into
a golden thread,
word by word,
line by line.
I will string my words
long your golden thread,
clasping them at the neck,
carrying  them always. 

Weave the golden thread 

Weave my tattoo
with golden thread.
Sew my skin with
my black hair.
Paint the words
across white flesh,
Freckle me with beads
My teeth are filled
with black seeds,
from every crevice
blooms now a poppy;
gold thread flosses
from pearl to pearl. 

A red dress with
golden thread;
sequins
of black seeds.
Almost wallflower,
in gold-threaded
party dress,
an abandoned goddess
stumbles, alone
across the cold,
unwelcoming floor.
Kisses, please.
Magic kisses. 

We just tied
the gold thread;
now she craves
the red. 

Seeds planted deep 

He planted the seeds
so deep inside me
they could not bloom
for many years
years of loving and
birthing and bathing
years of life but
when they grew
they grew and I
cannot deny they
are there, his eyes
searching me
his hands reaching
back  through time
back to Africa
where sesame seeds
displace black pearls
bridges built by Asian
men and pastoralists
displaced
by the colonies
of ants

Violins thread the air 

Violins thread the air
with notes, weaving us
together forever, wait
for me. Now the violin
blooms too, and the ants
shimmer black, climbing
the strings to honey fingers.
Today my son met a Russian
violinist with curly hair.
His face, my son said, was not
wrinkled or old. He wore a coat
and scarf. He waits
among the violins, ducking past
the bows.
He said Com-O-Rade staccato,
rat-a-tat like a Kalishnakov.
Russian violinist, do you wait
to climb? Or are you clasping
the hem of the golden goddess,
rising now.
I will wait for you,
by the last note.
Tie it with a red thread.
I do not wish to miss it.

Each verse I spin

Each verse I spin
clothes me in threads
bright colored or dark
I will miss you when
you’re gone when I’m
alone with my words.
Twine them together,
red and gold. Make
me a braid. Adorn  
my hair, as with
crimson-golden words.
The goddess appears
inside of me; she grips
my gut and sends
the words forward
desperate spilling
cross/white tile.

Even wallflowers have fields 

Even wallflowers have fields;
every goddess has her secrets.
The golden goddess is rising,
waiting, anticipating
her golden god, who staggers
drunk on a hippy rooftop.
The king of the words visited me.
He gave me a gift and now I feel
called to use it. Now I feel held
to my word. I will write.
And fields have floors and ladders.
And walls, perhaps.
Golden wallflowers climb
the brick ladder of earth.
I take your gold and scarlet,
I give you my silver threads,
the yarn of nighttime poems,
the strand of stars.
Rung by rung, you climbed me.
Strand by strand you twined me.

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

___________

Buy a year of Every Day Poems, just $2.99— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In March we’re exploring the theme Angels.