I’ve made no secret of the fact that I like InsideOut: Poems by L.L. Barkat. (Disclosure: she’s a friend, but I like the poems anyway.) (:)) If you’ve been reading InsideOut, have you seen/experienced/felt/been impressed by/had your socks blown off by/ any particular poem?

If you have, leave a comment here, along with any thoughts you might have about that particular poem, and we’ll put together a summary (or perhaps a series of summaries) as an official post.

I’ve read InsideOut twice, and I have several “favorites.” Actually, if truth be told, they’re all personal favorites. One is “Foyer,” and it starts this way:

Who looks
at the new straw
hat, remembering
grandma,…

And why is this a favorite for me? Because my paternal grandmother, who died in 1984 at the age of 95 and whom I dearly loved, wore a straw hat when she worked outside in the garden. The poem catapulted me back to childhood, when I would spend a week with her each summer, just the two of us. The poem opened up a flood of good memories.

So – do you have a favorite yet? And why?

We started “Fire and Rain: Poem by Comment” on Monday – and what a result! Thirteen people contributed lines, and created a marvelous poem in the process.

Here it is – the grand finale. Thanks to all who participated, all who thought about contributing, and all who stopped by to read it.

Fire and Rain

By @gyoung9751, @doallas, @poemsandprayers, @BibleDude, Russell Holloway (@LuvStomp), Lorrie, @Anne4JC, @llbarkat, @MonicaSharman, @dougspur, Louise and Diane

The bush consumed by fire,
yet not; the sands singed
by heat, yet sanctified by
flames, becoming
too holy to be trod upon as the rain begins.

Rain begins:
Drops as rivulets marked by hope-steps.
each leading to the bush
consumed yet not
becoming yet not
the path He trod before us.

We have stepped into
the intersection of fire
and rain
of yet-to-be Passion
the path to Light
deep
as black of night,
steps to take unsure.

Gray slush-mix
of want and not,
of looking not finding,
of seeing but missing
the one true place
of protection
from the elements

Each drop of rain
each speck in the eye
unseeing,
the flames
what they consume,
the secrets buried in the bush
in the sand pulling us in.

As we are called
and make bare our feet
our faces we cover
from sight of glory.

Standing drenched by rain
waiting, wanting, shivering
praying for the warmth
of the crackling fire
that seems so far away.

To stand
To make ready
Move forward
Shoulder to shoulder.

Yet our lips dare
part to speak
from stammering
hearts unworthy.

What magic this
from you, my Lord,
that in my heart burns
passion for Your Word.

It fills me, drives me;
it makes me new
til it can’t be contained
from me spills out You

And in the pouring out
of what burned bright
it becomes living Water
cool fresh and Light.

Flames lick, stick
to skin, breathe black
smoke of secret long held,
yes, buried, as we said before,
invoking time’s goodbye,
dust in ashes will yet
find…

Precious store:
Word on stone
Stone-writing
The long pilgrimage
In bare feet.

How rain cleansed,
drops hit lips,
skin breathed
awake its secret.

Throw down the rod,
The secret burning revealed.
No, my Lord,
Your fire does not consume;
The bush but burns my heart.

I have found myself in this staff.
I c,c,can’t return.
I’m only a lowly shepherd.
This is my rod, this is my place.

Please send s,s,someone else, not me.

Throw down the rod. I have heard the cries of My people.
Their tears have fallen like rain.
I will be with you.
Now go.

Such secret
as resides in me:

From dust
am I become

of You
am I
in image seen

of Word
I see
in flames

Or if words
Be consumed
as flames,
Passion.

An angel
a bush of fire
burning my heart
stiring my desire
to see
to be
to have what i have not
within me ever
near me
head spinning
chest pounding
i throw down the staff.

I throw down my all
dust of me on dust
of ground
hallowed ground
because of His life
in my dying,
surrender and dying,
then we are both raised.

And through the fire
the alchemy of love
brought forth
the gold
from dust created.

Raised from scrap-heap
of dust
from nothingness
on sacred grund
where pilgrim-marks
leave outlines
of dying unto Him
or rising among angels
into Life.

Angel-brush
so light of touch
on shoulder bared

Call me out!
Bid me see!

I am impatient
with waiting.

The rain begins,
each drop erasing
the trace-steps
of that lonely path
consuming the
fire, the bush
holding the secret
safe again.

fire and rain
swirling
pouring
all consuming
power
of creation.

Born of the burning
in the heat of His passion,
released from this night-dark stable
we rise anew,
becoming One
with Heaven and with Earth;
becoming Light.

Two more contributors have joined us, and two previous contributors added lines. This “poem by comment” is really becoming ssomething. Thanks to all. Comments will continue to be accepted through Wednesday (Dec. 23) morning.

Fire and Rain

By @gyoung9751, @doallas, @poemsandprayers, @BibleDude, Russell Holloway (@LuvStomp), Lorrie, @Anne4JC, @llbarkat, @MonicaSharman, @dougspur

The bush consumed by fire,
yet not; the sands singed
by heat, yet sanctified by
flames, becoming
too holy to be trod upon as the rain begins.

Rain begins:
Drops as rivulets marked by hope-steps.
each leading to the bush
consumed yet not
becoming yet not
the path He trod before us.

We have stepped into
the intersection of fire
and rain
of yet-to-be Passion
the path to Light
deep
as black of night,
steps to take unsure.

Gray slush-mix
of want and not,
of looking not finding,
of seeing but missing
the one true place
of protection
from the elements

Each drop of rain
each speck in the eye
unseeing,
the flames
what they consume,
the secrets buried in the bush
in the sand pulling us in.

As we are called
and make bare our feet
our faces we cover
from sight of glory.

Standing drenched by rain
waiting, wanting, shivering
praying for the warmth
of the crackling fire
that seems so far away.

To stand
To make ready
Move forward
Shoulder to shoulder.

Yet our lips dare
part to speak
from stammering
hearts unworthy.

What magic this
from you, my Lord,
that in my heart burns
passion for Your Word.

It fills me, drives me;
it makes me new
til it can’t be contained
from me spills out You

And in the pouring out
of what burned bright
it becomes living Water
cool fresh and Light.

Flames lick, stick
to skin, breathe black
smoke of secret long held,
yes, buried, as we said before,
invoking time’s goodbye,
dust in ashes will yet
find…

Precious store:
Word on stone
Stone-writing
The long pilgrimage
In bare feet.

How rain cleansed,
drops hit lips,
skin breathed
awake its secret.

Throw down the rod,
The secret burning revealed.
No, my Lord,
Your fire does not consume;
The bush but burns my heart.

I have found myself in this staff.
I c,c,can’t return.
I’m only a lowly shepherd.
This is my rod, this is my place.

Please send s,s,someone else, not me.

Throw down the rod. I have heard the cries of My people.
Their tears have fallen like rain.
I will be with you.
Now go.

Such secret
as resides in me:

From dust
am I become

of You
am I
in image seen

of Word
I see
in flames

Or if words
Be consumed
as flames,
Passion.

An angel
a bush of fire
burning my heart
stiring my desire
to see
to be
to have what i have not
within me ever
near me
head spinning
chest pounding
i throw down the staff.

I throw down my all
dust of me on dust
of ground
hallowed ground
because of His life
in my dying,
surrender and dying,
then we are both raised.

Our poem has gone in some interesting directions, but is staying true to the ideas of fire and rain/water. As of 7 p.m. central time tonight, we have eight contributors, and the current version with all contributions included is below.

Fire and Rain

By @gyoung9751, @doallas, @poemsandprayers, @BibleDude, Russell Holloway (@LuvStomp), Lorrie, @Anne4JC, and @llbarkat.

The bush consumed by fire,
yet not; the sands singed
by heat, yet sanctified by
flames, becoming
too holy to be trod upon as the rain begins.

Rain begins:
Drops as rivulets marked by hope-steps.
each leading to the bush
consumed yet not
becoming yet not
the path He trod before us.

We have stepped into
the intersection of fire
and rain
of yet-to-be Passion
the path to Light
deep
as black of night,
steps to take unsure.

Gray slush-mix
of want and not,
of looking not finding,
of seeing but missing
the one true place
of protection
from the elements

Each drop of rain
each speck in the eye
unseeing,
the flames
what they consume,
the secrets buried in the bush
in the sand pulling us in.

As we are called
and make bare our feet
our faces we cover
from sight of glory.

Standing drenched by rain
waiting, wanting, shivering
praying for the warmth
of the crackling fire
that seems so far away.

To stand
To make ready
Move forward
Shoulder to shoulder.

Yet our lips dare
part to speak
from stammering
hearts unworthy.

What magic this
from you, my Lord,
that in my heart burns
passion for Your Word.

It fills me, drives me;
it makes me new
til it can’t be contained
from me spills out You

And in the pouring out
of what burned bright
it becomes living Water
cool fresh and Light.

Flames lick, stick
to skin, breathe black
smoke of secret long held,
yes, buried, as we said before,
invoking time’s goodbye,
dust in ashes will yet
find…

Precious store:
Word on stone
Stone-writing
The long pilgrimage
In bare feet.

How rain cleansed,
drops hit lips,
skin breathed
awake its secret.

I first saw this done at nAncy’s blog, Just Say the Word. She started a poem, and allowed and encouraged visitors to add to it via comments. The result was delightful, with all kinds of people adding all kinds of lines. So I thought, why not do the same here at TweetSpeak Poetry? But with a slight twist.

And the twist is – make your contribution like a tweet on Twitter – 140 characters at a time. You can add as many comments as you like, but keep each to tweet-length (in keeping with the purpose of Tweetspeak Poetry – to provide a place for poems produced via Twitter). I’ll take each comment and add it to the body of the main poem.

We’re starting this morning, Monday Dec. 21, and we’ll conclude on Wednesday morning, Dec. 23. What follows is the starting theme or idea – fire and rain – with the first “tweet-like” lines.

So welcome to our “Poem by Comment.”

Fire and Rain

The bush consumed by fire,
yet not; the sands singed
by heat, yet sanctified by
flames, becoming
too holy to be trod upon as the rain begins.

I posted this review at Amazon today.

Beautiful, Luminous Poems

L.L. Barkat, author of Stone Crossings: Finding Grace in Hidden Places, got it into her head to sit outside each day for a year, even if only for a short time. And she got this idea – in the dead of winter. Her timing may have been off – snow and sub-zero temperatures aren’t the most conducive conditions for a long-term plan – but she did it, and the result is InsideOut: Poems.

Divided by seasons, the poems explore the range of human experience – from tragedy (the death of a spouse; a mother and son’s last moments aboard an ill-fated airliner) to family and love. They also cover the senses – sight, taste, touch, hearing – in luxuriant, almost sensuous words and concepts.

From “In Your Dream:”

i.

I was the wind
that knocked at the glass, that tipped
the candle that burned the kitchen;
all that remained was a golden fork.

ii.

I was the sound
of shattering, of gold
chattering amidst the wild
wild flames.

Or try this untitled poem:

I have heard
they harvest wild rice
by hand,
bending stems
that rise from waters,
knocking them
for chocolate
seed.

(And now say both poems out loud.)

I read InsideOut twice, and the second time was almost overwhelming. These are beautiful, luminous poems, and I’m glad Barkat braved those snows. She’s given us a gift here, a great gift.

I’ve been reading “The Complete Poems 1927 -1979” by Elizabeth Bishop. She was born in 1911 and died in 1979. Along the way, she picked up just about every writing award available – Pulitzer Prize, National Book Award, National Book Critics Circle Award, two Guggenheim Fellowships. And it doesn’t stop there.

I was introduced to Bishop’s poetry in the mid-1970s, and I “backed” into it. I was reading everything ever written by and about Flannery O’Connor, and she and Bishop had been good friends until O’Connor’s death in 1964 of complications from lupus. But once I finished reading O’Connor, I put Bishop aside. Only recently did I come across this volume of her complete poems, first published in 1984 . A few lines from “The Riverman” (1965):

I got up in the night
for the Dolphin spoke to me.
He grunted beneath my window,
hid by the river mist,
but I glimpsed him – a man like myself.
I threw off my blanket, sweating;
I even tore off my shirt.
I got out of my hammock
and went through the window naked.
My wife slept and snored.
Hearing the Dolphin ahead,
I went down to the river
and the moon was burning bright
as the gasoline-lamp mantle
with the flame turned up too high,
just before it begins to scorch…

I’m glad I found her poetry again.

Thursday night’s Tweet Party was about conversation – specifically, overheard conversations, including a few lines from Twitter tweets (some of which I recognized when the prompts arrived from @tspoetry).

We had five primary participants, and then a few poor souls wandered in accidentally and found themselves incorporated into the poetry jam (this happens) (more than you might think). And then, right at the end, the possibility of a new baby (which turned out to be one of those false alarm things that babies like to do).

In Conversation

By @llbarkat, @doallas, @poemsandprayers, @MonicaSharman, and @gyoung9751.
With unexpected contributions by @mhsteger, @audrajennings, @sarahmsalter, @TheBonnieGray and @lauraboggess (who concludes the entire poem).
And almost a new baby by @arestlessheart.

I Met You 30 Years Ago

When I met you 30 years ago,
I did not know
we would meet again
over oatmeal brulee
roasted potatoes
talk of bible and fire.

Telling words of loss remembered,
of moving on,
of prayers answered.

Two lifetimes ago.

The faces that have passed,
the names that have changed.

Restless heart,
restless baby
on an asphalt playground
but you didn’t pick me.

Restless is the heart
that remembers asphalt,
fire, and the art
of words long drifted,
long missing,

long caught up in memory webs,
catching me up
when your face appears.

With that I am afraid
I must run and eat my dinner
which is losing heat
as I tap on these cold keys.
Apologies…

When I sue you

When I sue you,
don’t purr that sweet
purr, don’t be demure.
I mean to take you
for all you’ve got,
she said, as she smiled
a cheshire smile.

Dues due.
You are after
the devil you are.
Just when I think
prey is taken,
long claw-marks line
my back.

I venture to say that
there is no sound worse than
that of a screeching cat.

Thirty years is
a long time to forget
your face and how
we used to trace the
claw marks on my back.

Dazed,
delirious,
demonized,
she got what she came for.

Let’s go searching for fire bushes

Facing roadblocks this season,
Lanes,
searching for fire bushes,
for fingers burning,
fingers pricked,
fingers burning.

Where were you
these 30 years,
somewhere across the Pacific perhaps,
while I sat beneath
the leaning bushes, hiding
tears,
tracing patterns
of hearts
aflame.
I face it head on to keep myself in check.

Do I dare taste the fire,
pick from its ripeness?
Did leave your imprint
not on my heart
but there
for all the world to see?

Hearts set afire
like burning bushes
in sacred sand.

I could sue you,
I suppose, for tears and fire
burning in my heart,
I could. But would
you even notice, stoic
that you are?

When I look at the stars, I feel like myself,
the trees afire, with stars alight,
stars and trees, scars and fingers burnt
like a Scarlet Letter,
but no Hester Prynne be;
I remember that day in court.

Christmas tree shopping

Scarlet is as good
a color as any
for Christmas, for the ribboned
tree hushed beneath
a burning star.

Tears wear me down;
no matter
each one dropped,
taken up by sand,
consumed.

And the now sands aflame
echo the fire bushes.
Star once burned out
and now renewed,
its light a haloed crown.

Light a candle on each branch.
Keep the scent of spice in the air.
And under the weight of the tree
the gift.

Freelance writer has published tips in Better Homes

Better than tips in Worse Homes,
Better Homes
for Better Poetry.

Sue me if you must; later
you can publish tips
on how to burn a heart,
make a better home.

Bring out your very best wine,
from Sineann in Oregon,
making any home better.
Your kisses deliver.

Freelance writer
seeking Better Homes
for Better Poetry
ISO free style.
No meter,
no rhymes,
low overhead,
punctuation if you like
or not.

(OK, so that was a commercial plug.)

On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria

On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria,
Guiness paid every employee
an extra week’s salary.

If you sue me,
could you wait
to do it during
Jubilee, then decide
in haste to fulfill your
obligation, free me.

Hi, I’m the wine taster;
perhaps you have not
met me yet, but
I assure you, I am
better than kisses.

Such a Jubilee did employees
make of
extra pounds and shillings.
Wine did flow freely
as though were water
and many a chap
did swear at morning’s light.

Do you deliver?
I love the plug for the wine yet
only a glass plug and not cork.

I’m slow. I just got it (laughing she is).

Zombie girl chapbook up

Call me Zombie Girl,
I can twirl ’til
my feet turn scarlet,
I can whirl.
Check out those fangs.
Zombie Girl
has a knack
for snacks
at midnight.

Dang,
she said, as she looked at the New Moon in Twilight.
Cannot wait
to sink
my teeth
into that.

And chicken, see
Zombie Girl likes chicken,
oh, and that, too,
Chicken without fangs and wine with no corks.

Howls went up;
biting into dry cork
left her mouth
dry.

Zombie Girl
does a good Valley Girl
impression.
Where oh where is that full moon?
I cannot find a candle for the branch.

Did you notice?
Full moon tonight
and wine
do mix.
Aaaaaaooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Very stylish,
but Zombie girl fails to notice;
she’s looking at full moon.

He keeps checking the time on his two wrist watches

Why does he keep on watching his watches?
Is it absolutely
necessary to have two,
wrists if one has
two wrist watches,
just inquiring.

8 tips to know if you are boring

Sorry to tweet and run.
Husband needs the phone line
to call about used cars.
We need a car, bad.

Will the writer
who has published tips
for better homes
please also advise
on how to know
if you are boring.

Tip 1: Find someone you knew 30 years ago.
He lets out a cry!
Are you saying I am boring?

No. That’s Tip 1 if you are
boring — and learning how not
to be boring.

Just checking, see,
to know if I should
sue you for liveliness
discrimination.

(That sounds like @Katdish.)

Tip #2: The watches have to go.
Quite out of style.
Boring tips.

I’m a beginner

Looking in your face
30 years late, I find
I know not
how to begin.
Thirty years and you
look very familiar.

This is my 8th winter in Colorado
Tips of evergreen
bore me now. It’s
been 8 long years
since I made
my home in
this tree,
Candles and stars.

Conversation on education about to start

Dear @jwessner,
do not be alarmed.
You have stepped into
a poem party. Or
been abducted, as the
case may be.
And just became a part of the poem.

Better Bores Begin Best.
Very alarming to be a
bore in the poem of
better homes.

I’m thinking that
a conversation
on education
could be salvaged
with a little wine,
and perhaps
a candle-tipped evergreen.

I’m dying of coldness
Eight years I have
lived in these Colorado,
mountains, eight years it has
been since your kiss
and I am dying
of coldness.
Tip the candle
Light a flame,
a fire in my heart.

Be quick!
Fire bushes
will take away
your chill,
though kisses
they promise not.

The fire of the burning sands,
the flaming tree.
the mountain afire
burn away the memory
of the owl. and the pussy cat
howling at the moon.
No boring
men do live
in mountains.
Pray tell, why so few kisses?
Perhaps your coldness
be the tip off.
Thirty years cold,
the faces of old men
tip, pray for kisses
once again burning.

Lecturing on modern art at a nursing home

You might think
lecturing on modern
art at a nursing home
could be boring.
No. The tipped chins
of the residents
splay like Pollack.

You are like a museum,
full of faceless paintings.
Abstract kisses,
Picasso twists and turns;
the residents have art down cold.

Errata/Finis

Quietest night EVER
on Twitter!

You just entered a poetry jam.

It takes me weeks to write a good poem.
I don’t “jam” well.

You did tonight – right at the end.

Ah sweet night,
delight to word with you,
to verse, to play.
A playful mood, with fire bushes,
flaming mountains,
fine wine,
all turned InsideOut.

That’s my sweet publicity friend,
veering words towards InsideOut!

Department of Shameless Promotion.
That’s me.
Read InsideOut while drinking Sineann wine.

Is it a prerequisite?
The wine for the reading,
or the reading for the wine?

But it give me an idea.

And InsideOut
from run-in with Zombie Girl.
I bid good night,
dreaming of full moons,
fire bushes,
quiet.

Thinking this is probably it.
Going to get some rest
while we still can.
Looks like baby’s comin’,
from Kelly.
I’m thinking that @restlessheart
will be obligated
to name the new one
T.S.
A baby!
As we tweet! How much cooler does it get?

Alarmed, post-pasta
abducted, into the warmth
of poets, wine and tweetspeak,
kidnapped by friendly poets.

I yield to abduction gladly.
So exciting! This T.S. be the
night for Kelly?
A (poetic) star may be born!

You jam very well…
Even better, I have all of the tweets in a Word doc.
Good night to all;
writing awaits me
after my first @tspoetry party.
Neato.

Total of 139 tweets
in tonight’s tweet party.
Candles,
30 year memories,
a baby’s time to be born,
stars and evergreen branches,
What were the chances?

Ugh! I missed it again!

Yes, we had a tweet party on Twitter last night. Five or six of us participated, and we also had a few unexpected guests who tripped into the poetry jam. We’ll be posting the poem — or series of poems — shortly.

The next Tweet Party (poetry jam on Twitter) is scheduled for Thursday, Dec. 3 from 9:30 to 10:30 p.m. Eastern time. Just sign on to Twitter, make sure you’re following @tspoetry, and wait for the prompt. And don’t forget to use the #tsp hashtag on your tweets.

For past parties, see The Walled Garden of Herbs and Spices, Love at the Masquerade Ball, Poems of the Ruby Moon, The Orchards of Desire, A Tabloidian Twepic, and At the Oasis, the Camel on Caravan.