In case you missed the live performance, there’s a replay available of L.L. Barkat’s poetry reading with Brooke Campbell’s singing at an International Arts Movement program last night in New York City.

The replay can be found here. L.L. is reading selections from her InsideOut: Poems.

The replay offers you a chance to listen to the real deal. And you still have this weekend to order InsideOut at the January special price of $6.03.

Joy at Memoria Arts talks about her response to last night’s webcast: A time for…

John Updike’s Endpoint and Other Poems was published posthumously last year, after a long and stellar writing career. Some of these poems were written in the last year of his life, some even in the last month.

The volume is divided into four sections: “Endpoint,” a series of birthday poems he wrote for himself between 2002 and 2008, along with poems written in the hospital as he was dying; “Other Poems,” an eclectic group whose subjects range from stolen paintings and singer Frankie Lane to doo wop and an elegy for golfer Payne Stewart; “Sonnets,” which cover music, places and people both real and imagined; and “Light and Personal,” which include poems on country music and his wife on her birthday.

A selection from the birthday poem for 2008, “Spirit of ’76,” written in Tucson, Arizona, gives a sense of the “Endpoint” poems:

Here in this place of arid clarity,
two thousand miles from my souvenirs
collect a cozy dust, the piled produce
of bald ambition pulling ignorama,
I see clear through to the ultimate page,
the silence I dared break for my small time.
No piece was easy, but each fell finished,
in its shroud of print, into a book-shaped hole.

And from “Baseball:”

…football can be learned,
and basketball finessed, but
there is no hiding from baseball
the fact that some are chosen
and some are not…

There is something of self-indulgence about many of these poems. But in the last years of Updike’s life, with the body of fiction, essays, articles, poetry and even movie reviews he left behind, self-indulgence can be forgiven.

Endpoint and Other Poems is the work of old age, when confidence and reputation is not something to be achieved and accomplished but simply enjoyed. And I think John Updike enjoyed writing these poems.

Our poetry jams on Twitter are supposed to last for an hour, and they do, but all of us tend to linger for a while, talking, chatting, congratulating each other, make the odd comment here or poking fun there. That lingering lasted for some 20 minutes last Tuesday night, and it struck me that we had another kind of poetry jam going on.

So I collected all of the comments from afterwards, along with a few others that happened earlier from some of those innocent bystanders who wandered in and left dazed. The results are the five poems below. And yes, I had fun with these.

5 Poems in Conversation

By @doallas, @llbarkat, @MonicaSharman, @memoriaarts, @TchrEric, @katdish, @redclaydiaries, @poemsandprayers, @lauraboggess, @kathleenoverby, @mdgoodyear, @gyoung9751, @BridgetChumbley, @sarammsalter, @mxings, @nitewrit, @mmerubies, @jamesrls, @togetherforgood, @lorrie58 and @moondustwriter, and a little #smooch of editing by @gyoung9751.

A Conversation Poem (1)

This is wild stuff here,
folks. Anyone else feel
breathless just
reading it?
I’m hungry too!!
Coming back for the
smooches! Good night to
all.

Whoa, that moved fast.
Lots of fun too!
Is there an easier way of
tracking who is talking on #tsp?
Tweet newbie here.
I’m using tweetgrid. Only
way to keep up, and
I use the term loosely.
For what it’s
worth, I use
Tweetdeck and
create a column for
#tsp . Click on the
hashtag; all will
be revealed (even
the corset talk).

Editor does gather up the
threads and sew
them all together (and
quite fashionably).
Good night you all…well done!

Once again it’s Tuesday
evening, I’m working &
catch a glimpse of your
game. Longing to join
but only able to sigh
& watch. Peace.
One of these days
you might get a word in;
glad you were here.

Oh sure, I’m still
thinking over that
last one… so
slow, so slow;
good thing it’s
not a dance. Standing
ovation here; amazed at
the quick brains. Clap.
Clap. Clap.

Seriously? Drop the link over
at Seedlings and we’ll add
it to the next RAP.
A slow goodnight, and thanks to all.
Big bunches of #smooches to
all of you. What a
#smoochfest! Ciao!
 

A Conversation Poem (2)

Yeah, I think I’ll go
back to Tweetdeck. Web
confused me mightly! My
#tsp tag/search doesn’t show
everybody- like couldn’t see @katdish.
But could tell there
were more people
talking than I
could “see.”
We will have to figure that out.

If you all go to
@tspoetry, you can
see who we follow. Follow
everyone and it will
make the party
easier to “see.”
Thanks for a
nice evening. Have a
restful night of
poetic dreams.

Glad I’m not the
only one! Fish out of
water, indeed. But
total blast. I will
be forever fascinated with
turn of phrase and
word. I need to
check and see who I
need to be following.
I did an add column on
Tweetdeck then
entered #tsp. Pretty
much real time.
Did M. Goodyear stick
around? It’s half his
“fault” I’m here.
Yeah, where did that
boy go?
Liked take-off on
Goodnight, Moon.

That was a wild ride.
My cheeks are stretch-marked
from laughing.
Thanks so much for
moderating another
great event.
I second that.

Oh boy. Big
work for Midwestern
Man, whoa!
That is one hunk of words.

A Conversation Poem (3)

I think if I
kept a tab open to
@tspoetry on Twitter,
and the #tsp tag
open on HootSuite, that
would work for me.

Got a long phone
call in the middle of
everything. Better luck
next time!
Good night all.
Tme to go rest up so
I can deal with
the cherubs in
the a.m.
Good nite, teach.

Making Bad Choices

Watch American Idol or
do poetry jam? I think #idol
wins. #tsp folks, I’ll
be in the audience.

Pppbbbtttt!
And again I say pbbbtttt!
Sounds like a Sunday
School song.
Had to go back and
re-read what I wrote;
again I say rejoice!
And get thee in here!

The Tangled Nonsense Part

Can I use that
line sometime? The
tangled nonsense part? That’s
AWESOME!
I was about to tell
you how proud I was of
you for attempting this. Then
I saw that tweet & all
went out the window!

A rose by any
other name, is still
a rose. Besides, I can’t
help myself. TWSS.
We do get dramatic, no?

Husband
glared at silver fish,
wishing them back
to places she refused
to send them.

“Red clay”? When did
you arrive in GA?

I’ve now got you
and @sarahmsalter in
the poem.
What did I say?!
If by “no” you
mean “yes,” then “no.”

Silver fish do send up a
@katdish.
Gaaaa!
(Gaaaa! is a registered
trademark by
@katdish.)

Okay, well the
tangled part wasn’t
mine, just the
nonsense. Go figure.
Well, it’s not like
anyone is ‘watching’
or anything… #pressure.
I was amazed when
they actually
incorporated my
nonsense into the poem.
(Got that line, too.)
THAT is the joy of
words and language!
Our nonsense is
someone else’s poetry;
there you have it!
(Well, that didn’t hurt,
too much!)

We may call this
#tsp “Red Clay and
Breadcrumbs in a Katdish.”
For red clay?
Oops,
maybe I should go pick
up my daughter from
dance practice.
#Twitterdistractedme (Smirk).

I’ve got tears streaming
down and
my family thinks I’ve
gone straight over
the edge with all y’all.
That was a great line!

That, my sweet @doallas
is a secret
but you knew
didn’t you, even
as you asked.
Those words come
not from me;
poems and prayers
eve would prefer.

Well, I think I’ve
done enough damage
here. Gotta go
write a guest post intro.
Bid a fair evening
Thanks for your words.
Tis the end. Sigh.

Moondustwriter: you guys
did #tsp without a
little moon dust. I’m
broken hearted.

In that one short hour Tuesday night, we had a considerable number of contributions to our poetry jam on Twitter. Some 21 people participated, although a few accidentally wandered in, asked a question or two, looked around, found themselves suddenly being cited in a poem, and promptly left to watch American Idol on TV.

In the editing of the contributions, I’ve often had to move a few things around, because of the timing of each contribution. And, for the first time, I’ve actually added a word here or a short line there, after the fact, to retain the context and flow for those who didn’t participate but read afterwards.

The two poems below are the last of the “official” contributions during the jam. I’ll post one more tomorrow – taken from the conversation that happened after the jam.

Tara and Birds: 2 Poems

By @doallas, @llbarkat, @MonicaSharman, @memoriaarts, @TchrEric, @katdish, @redclaydiaries, @poemsandprayers, @lauraboggess, @kathleenoverby, @mdgoodyear, @gyoung9751, @BridgetChumbley, @sarammsalter, @mxings, @nitewrit, @mmerubies, @jamesrls, @togetherforgood, and @lorrie58, and a little #smooch of editing by @gyoung9751.

Rhett/Adam and Shirley/Eve at Tara

Suspended chord moves
the dance until tension
breaks like cinnamon fragrance.

We are back in Tara, it seems;
Corsets
did women of a certain age
rein in.
Can you fix
a sodden sheet?
Beneath the sodden sheets,
Adam
hemmed in,
as usual, trapped in unchanging
ritual, the same
dark
butter
sugar.
Ahh sugar, my darlin’ puddin and pie.
Can you meet again,
the place where
skin did sink
into cotton weave?

All your talk of corsets and ties,
five, as fingers,
not exactly forgetting this,
but not found, reaching,
remembering lines, notes,
shape, touch of skin.
A corset, surely
sodden and red with clay,
corsets pinned,
hemming in flesh
like pudding,
chocolate, vanilla,
butterscotch.

In Tara, Rhett ordered
a chocolate malt
& pudding pie,
everything spilling over into
something else, another
trail, one more thing.
Eve smiled and said, please
don’t call me Shirley;
I think I shall be sick
if talk continues
of flesh like butterscotch
and pudding. Bad
memories of butterscotch
is why,
butterscotch sunrise over pallid wave,
sails slack, folded in.

Hem me in,
pin your heart
to my sleeve
thick as a southern
summer.
Summer sounds of
freight on worn rails;
summer’s heat
weighs down,
not unlike an endless meal
of green tomatoes and fries;
a freight of words
run forth
over well-used tracks
lose meaning.

Storm Birds

Showy birds
billow on air
blue, red,
purple beneath
green storm clouds,
heat and lightnin’
living, dancing evidence billows
white with dark stains.
Ashen sails
hang slack
on a coffee
black morning
going nowhere.
Too heavy, this one,
this day,
she winds herself tight
against its weight,
knotted against flight.

Touch my chin;
it is fragile as eggshells
beneath your trembling
fingers,
eggshells so delicate
now shards,
bird’s wing torn,
jawbone of he knew not.
Eggshells fractured
like pond ice cracked;
cracked ground,
fractured wind,
signs of death;
the ashy fragment of a wasp’s nest,
signs of loss.
Tin on ice fusing
away from lamp-heat.
Methinks a truck of cows
and ducks
has captured our showy birds.

And yet he would
make of them
a new night’s play;
a new, anon, a night
beyond, it flees toward a day.
Ashes rise
on wind;
you cannot pin this
loss to the ground.
Ash bone turns
glorious morning
live and dance again anew,
till morning’s coffee
black (as usual)
did greet him.
Another morning,
going nowhere,
over easy please.

Eggshell hems,
cracked corsets,
we fall out of favor with
the tailored perfect.
Can you tailor
death to a day?
I think not.
Adam does read the signs
well;
love be dead
where roses pale.
I think yes,
Madam,
the clue remains
in that Chinese jar.

Turn over the tailored shirt,
put on your glasses, and
hold your jawbone tight.
Jawbone held tight
does fight with words,
for words to get word out.
A staring contest,
don’t have the time,
carry on if you like,
I’m movin’ down the line.
I can read
to my ruin.

For some reason
I am hungry now.
I cannot resist
words dipped in honeycombs
and licked clean
with milk.
eftovers, every one,
discards, covered over,
left behind, and he?
But leavest thou not
also finding that’s what she said
& don’t call me Shirley, for
tomorrow is another day.

Good night moon.
Goodnight corset strings.
Goodnight eggshells and
jawbones and blue words.
Goodnight friends.

The editing of Tuesday nights poetry jam on Twitter continues apace. Three more poems are below: “Breadcrumbs Leaving a Trail,” “I Wake Up in the Morning,” and “”Breakfast at the Greasy Spoon at 3 a.m. with Eve the Waitress.”

And something else as emerged as well — several side conversations (and editorial comments) fashioned themselves into a kind of poetry, all on their own.

There will be one or two more poems after these three, and then the poem of Twitter conversation.

Three TweetSpeak Poems

By @doallas, @llbarkat, @MonicaSharman, @memoriaarts, @TchrEric, @katdish, @redclaydiaries, @poemsandprayers, @lauraboggess, @kathleenoverby, @mdgoodyear, @gyoung9751, @BridgetChumbley, @sarammsalter, @mxings, @nitewrit, @mmerubies, @jamesrls, @togetherforgood, and @lorrie58, and a little #smooch of editing by @gyoung9751.

Breadcrumbs, Leaving a Trail

Breadcrumbs leaving a trail,
a circle trail.
That’s what she said,
having known a thousand ways
to circle round him
and his ice-breaking ways.
What words she said,
the words swirling around.
Circle me
with silver waves,
pleat my mind
with fingers
fringed promise.
Hold auburn strands
between fingers;
let them
fall like rain on
his knees.

She’d give but breadcrumbs
to hear him speak
once more,
so annoyed she was.
Birds and words
swirled with promises.
breadcrumbs leaving a trail,
a circle for her eyes to follow
I caught red clay
between my fingers,
smeared my knees
with earth’s trail.
And then the
quaking hunger
sheds him.

His words swirling around,
she began to sing,
a song it was
of tender bread and jelly tart
as she herself might be.
Bread upon water,
walking still,
to satisfy his quaking hunger.
Ravenous,
he was anchovy?

Petals fell in silent procession,
striking the keys,
playing silent melodies
to the season.
And some she left there,
particles of house mingling
with the crumbs, ashes, dust;
sprayed kisses
like perfume
and wished
her friends
adieu:
cool tea and cloves remind me,
thread generation to tilting generation,
standing outside of time.

Black keys spun their own dark song;
the Chinese jar beckoned.
I like the black keys;
they dance
on my knees in Georgia with you
that old sweet song,
dance to dark songs,
the black keys dance
though flat and sharp.
Open the Chinese
jar, smell cinnamon, clove,
rose, cinnamon;
roses
I beg of you.

Ashes, dust, roses, crumbs,
cool tea and cloves,
red ribbons curl
and black keys play
and one then another falls to knees.
Find Melo’s words;
they are in the jar,
swimming with cinnamon,
pressing sharp against
porcelain.
Melo’s word float to top,
their cinnamon scent
reminding of days
spent on knees,
begging please, please, please.
Yes, I beg you
not forget,
gaze upon the sea,
remember me.

Five serene years for her;
Maybe
Adam and Eve
had their own trials to deal with.

I Wake Up in the Morning

I wake up in the morning,
forgetting all
yet forgetting not.
They gather begging
and I find you gone.
Found time, lost time,
given, taken, offered, carried, loved.
Remember what my grandmother forgets,
forget what she
should never have
forgotten.
All I can do is cry.
Words do twist the tongue at times,
and words sometimes doth twist
the fingers, too.

Petal-clothes gone,
shivering into quick
ice façade.
Wonder and gaze at the trial now gone,
find you gone,
like a whisper
never heard.
f you must, cry then,
but cry not for him.

Twist your fingers
in the curl of my
dark hair;
lick my lips
like sweet butter,
twist the whisper in the dark.
Who is it
that is doing the twisting,
the curling,
the licking
of lips?
A song,
a song of a yellow bird.

Breakfast at the Greasy Spoon at 3 a.m. with Eve the Waitress

Eve they did beat
with their words
of wanting.
Eve, she thought
of Adam,
how he left
her to deal
with three.

Cry, the coffee
is too dark
and the morning
came without
sugar.
Sylvie, Helen, and Molly three
Coffee
Toast
no butter.
I wanted to yell,
ain’t no restaurant we got here.
Sipping coffee, buttering toast,
forgetting sustenance.
…no short order cook to answer three…
Yell the order:
coffee, toast, two lumps;
the waitress bumps,
into the counter,
slaps the mug down.

And then the customer doth say,
Can I get fries with that shake?
Out spills more than coffee,
butter slides
and toast
burned black,
she makes her point.
Into shake she pours
from Chinese jar,
remembering how to fix ‘em good.
Fries went south with shake
of fist.
Eve had had enough.

Hey!
What about my order of fries?

It was a classic poetry jam Tuesday night, and the number of participants continued to swell. I’ve decided to break the contributions into at least two posts, possibly three. This is the first.

Adam and Eve by the Narrow Lake

By @doallas, @llbarkat, @MonicaSharman, @memoriaarts, @TchrEric, @katdish, @redclaydiaries, @poemsandprayers, @lauraboggess, @kathleenoverby, @mdgoodyear, @gyoung9751, @BridgetChumbley, @sarammsalter, @mxings, @nitewrit, @mmerubies, @jamesrls, @togetherforgood, and @lorrie58, and a little #smooch of editing by @gyoung9751.
And a special nod of grace to @moondustwriter, who, missing the party, was brokenhearted.

Such bright fruit
did Adam want
yet Eve denied.
Showy birds in boughs
did turn the landscape
red and blue,
like a basket of flowers.
I am a soft bird
nesting near your heart
in narrow hopes of
discerning the beat.

Eve would sit by narrow pond,
mostly wondering
as Adam wandered
amidst grass and black leaves,
looking for temptation.
Air in the pond
and inverted trees reaching
out for clouds.

Come closer, Eve bid,
and Adam,
as he dared,
bent an ear
to hear the music on high.
Into pools of deep
she would
gaze long.
Light the lamp;
I will cast a shadow
in its golden slant.

At water’s edge, Eve,
Lying,
hair flowing
lit by lamps as gold shines.
And the water of his word covered me;
I am the fallen branches,
lost in thought,
shuffle stomp,
blue gaze and yellow eye
searching deep within.

Adam had not patience
for Eve’s gazing, seeking
to be the
source of a reflection;
she so soft
heard his heart beat not.
Knock against tin,
hear the hollow beat
of hope
for her,
not for her. She looked to
sun for solace,
to sky so bright as tin,
hoping to read the clouds.

Hushed whispers looking on
at edge of word of world
all tin;
the hollow beat of two hearts
once one with one
but for the bright fruit
that separated.

Out of league only if
thee cannot swim;
just jump in, she said.
Hope
rises;
hope falls
as a heart beat heard not
by one not loved.
Just jump in the water and
Swim.
Eve
hangs her head
in the shame of
not being poetic.

Fragments of tin
cut by time’s warp;
fragments of words
that sound as tin to her ear
break a heart
that once held hope,
break a part that
once was whole.
Hanging head and
wounded heart.

If my heart were
transparent,
you might
see the ice forming,
breaking, floating away
on raveled waves.
Warp of time
did distort
her reasoning,
leaving he
no good words
on which to fall
back in love.

No more
taste fruit;
let breath
fall on
empty sighs.
“Cut by time’s warp:”
slivers of silver
reflect across time,
offering glimpses of sacred
to those who dare
to gaze.

She of wounded heart
still could not give up;
once more she looked
to see him,
translucent hope
hovering upon the waters.
Eve hath no need to be poetic
when heart is broke. Words make
haste from mouth and
sometimes shame.

Songs of old
Faint
slither sings,
and teeth grate.
Ice torn
like bright tin
urged against
the wind.
Her heart did turn
to ice
but for that membrane
where it cleft,
forming black as her feeling,
like ice over a flame.
Sun burns
No more.
Will it rise?

Tap against my skin;
feel the sorrow
sealed within
like fish silver
silent lined.
The flame splits the
membrane of ice;
sealed stone never
to be rolled back.

Urged back,
moving once toward and
then against the wind,
Adam realized his great mistake
too late,
for by evening
the lake there
had sealed itself over,
and dare he think his love
lie below.
And rainbow rays
reflected upon surfaces
shone hope to those who witnessed.

Wretched hand
no longer grasps
chaos;
blackened spins,
hope undone,
whispers on shore,
night not over yet.
Those who witnessed
saw how Adam
turned his back,
and back against the wind,
did venture onto lake,
his love grown cold.

And skin burns,
darkened sun
folds;
fringe tangles the talk.
Heat of ice
shards
left behind
breadcrumbs.
Ice breaker,
he was
no indolent talker;
he would pleat her hem
with his fingers,
ply the fringe
about her eyes,
sometimes.
And in the tangled
nonsense, one voice
cried out,
“That’s what she said!”

Knit knowledge pummeled them
but He promised
hope’s questioning swirl.

Scott Cairns teaches modern and contemporary literature and creative writing at the University of Missouri. He’s also an accomplished poet, whose work has appeared in the Atlantic Monthly, Paris Review, New Republic, and Books & Culture. And he’s a Guggenheim fellow.

In Short Trip to the Edge, Cairns writes about four pilgrimages he makes to spiritual centers of the Eastern Orthodox Church – three to Mount Athos in Greece and one to a center in Arizona. His pilgrimage is about prayer – to find a spiritual father who can lead him and develop his life as a prayer to God.

And during his pilgrimages, he also writes about poetry, because, as he says, “Poetry itself is a pilgrim’s journey:

“My sense of actual poetry writing is that, before it can so much as begin, it must be recognized as a way by which we concurrently construct and discern experience; it is not a means by which we transmit ideas or narrative events we think we already understand. But a way we might discover more sustaining versions of them.”

During one journey to Mount Athos, he talks with a professor on leave from Harvard who’s likely to become a monastery novice (and he eventually does). Cairns doesn’t press him for more information. Instead,
“We left it at that, though I was very keen to hear more about his decision. Something about his candor actually made me careful not to press him; it was coupled, even so, with a curious quality of uncertainty, as if he didn’t see where this path would lead him, or even what he should say about it. Our conversation reminded me of how a poem comes into being: one begins to speak, then trusts the words to lead the way.”

I like the concept of poetry as a pilgrim’s journey, a journey where the destination is not precisely known.

Short Trip to the Edge has a lot to say about prayer, and life being the idea of living a prayer. Visit Faith, Fiction, Friends for my post on “The Jesus Prayer.”

Last Friday, L.L. Barkat posted an article at the High Calling Blogs on “Why Poetry?”, and it has some connections to what Cairns’ talks about in his book.

A couple of weeks ago, I asked if anyone who’d been reading InsideOut: Poems by L.L. Barkat had any favorites they’d like to talk about. And the answer to that question was – a definite yes.

The poems are organized by season, and Maureen Doallas likes the winter section best. “Within that section,” she wrote, “are poems I’ve read again and again.” She cites “Senility,” for example, “which conveys beautifully in just 15 lines the poet’s poignant watching of her self being disappeared as aunt, mother, and grandmother suffer ‘forgetfulness…encroaching:’”

I remember
when I existed
in more than just a
scrap of your mind…

Maureen also likes “In Your Dream” (“wonderful sing-song quality, like a beloved nursery rhyme”); “Disappearance” (“a perfect evocation of loss”); “Hibernate” (“the understanding that we have to go through darkness, the long nights of winter, to emerge into light, into day, into grace”); and “Instructions” (“which conveys all the ordinariness of life, which goes on, must go on, even as death pulls you up short and knocks the breath out of you”).

“Throughout InsideOut,” Maureen says, “it is the sparseness of the poems – the few words used in each – that is so striking when contrasted with the emotional punch you feel when you’ve reached the last lines. There is nothing studied about the poems; they are rich with every-day details of life but the life is not just observed and described; it’s turned over, re-imagined, and re-experienced…and so pulls us in.”

Reading Maureen’s comments are like reading poetry.

Nancy’s comment was short and sweet – she simply wrote her favorite:

If sunflowers
touched us lightly
as a pollen on a
blue day, would we not
care again, dream.

Laura Boggess, who earlier this week wrote an article on InsideOut for HighCallingBlogs, said: “So many I am enjoying. I haven’t quite finished caressing my way through. I recognize some, and I greet them like old friends – they, all the more special for their familiarity. These words, from ‘Verse,” breathe softly in my ear today:

I guess it must
be marks on tender
skin, bearers of sin,
cool cups of rain
and bottles of tears
collected on midnight
trains from the eyes
of old men, old women…

And Lorrie wrote: “I have little torn pieces of paper marking favorites throughout my first read. They are ‘Disappearance’ – pg. 57; ‘The Watching’ – page 73; and untitled on page 83:

Curry leaf
floats, curls
‘midst black onion
seeds, brown sauce,
and I taste
your love.

And finally, Lorrie says, “and none the least,” she likes “In Lieu of the New York Times” (pg. 84).

Here are some additional resources and links about InsideOut: Poems:

Laura’s article at HighCallingBlogs
My review at Amazon.com
InsideOut’s web page
“Poetry and Wine – A Giveaway,” the chance for a free copy through Jan. 21

International Arts Movement also has a page on InsideOut here.

As I mentioned in the post yesterday, I decided to break the results of Tuesday’s poetry jam into two posts, comprised of several smaller poems each. We had so many great contributions, and it was fascinating to watch how the narrative direction would shift and change and adapt.

So here is Part 2. There are lines and sections here that are stunning. I’ll let you figure out which ones those are.

Whale Song: Poems

By @Doallas, @llbarkat, @RobinMArnold, @redclaydiaries, @lauraboggess, @poemsandprayers, @mxings, @shrinkingcamel, @TchrEric, @mhsteger, @gyoung9751 and @moondustwriter; prompted by @tspoetry; some inspiration by @lorrie58; and a smidgen of editing by @gyoung9751

Whale Song

If I were alone
with you
playing upon
whale’s fountain
surfing salt air,
I could lose sight
of shore, shallows, depths,
the whole world.

Returning
from the interruption
of life,
word-water lifts
from spout.
Long sighhhh,
for it takes a lot for a
whale to sigh.

Whale
in such deep water
wondered at a world
of swan and mole,
of dragonfly and earthworm,
odd friends
but friends still,
and camels
wandering through trees.
And the friendship is
sung in the whale song.
What kind of things are these
but friends?

Whale song,
tender as morning light,
echoes the siren’s lament,
aliens
at home
in ocean’s Eden.
Siren on whale’s back
brings her song
together beached
beneath sky and arc of stars.

The Albatross

Albatross draped
upon my neck,
I toil like an ant
pitched against
the night.
Come, please come,
nothing more to say;
come, see
and flew away.
A sound of little feet,
birds walking bearing cream of ice,
gathering quickly shell and seaweed
mix with salt tears
pat round as moon
and offer in friendship,
Gathering crumbs
of moon cakes
for hippo
yet not appeared.

The Whale’s Seashell

You hold the seashell
I found
half buried in the sand,
to my four year old ear
and teach me to dream.
Cream of waves,
frothed and churned,
sent back to shore
to wash away
remaining scent.

If I were a siren
and you alone
could hear my song,
would you dance
ith me, drench me,
take my arm beneath
salt white moon,
leave this crumb trail to
find the way
back home?

Teach me
frothed love,
loud-sipped
through straw,
striped pink
That we might
trip through
gentle waves
and sit upon the shore
and eat moon cakes the night long.

Riding the Whale

If I were a black bird,
would you hear my song
and fall open-armed to sky,
fingertip to starlight
moon-bathing fools?
A child amidst us,
shell to ear,
brings us to dreaming,
dreaming of promises
held in stars
and songs of sirens
riding whale backs
and gentle waves
that lull to sleep.

The Dance to the Whale’s Song

It is the dance on the sand,
the dance to the song of the whale.
No one, I tell
You, no
one has ever
danced like this
before, salt-flecked
algae purpled
upon this sand.
The child
it was
who taught the dance,
song echoing from deep
within the shell,
did move us,
send us high
into a sky of glisten,
a sky ink-blue
where each wanders
as a star,
pointing to a dream
come true.

Hearing the song,
they all got up
and tapped their toes.
If time could stop,
I would want it
to halt right here
at the water’s edge,
where your shadow
is kissing the sea.

Whale Dream

Dream of whale,
of shark
of swan so white,
tiniest ant,
glowing earthworm,
each his own star.
A dream not knowing where it goes
Moonlight,
Sea
and stars,
what dreams are made of,
held close
held deep,
unfathomable
as time.

Moon’s light
finds you
and where you are,
so are we. It’s enough
to be
poor old dragonfly. Said the black bird,
Dreams are made of whale’s songs,
dragonfly wings, stars an
iced cakes.

Hide out,
Hide not,
there is a star that
holds your promise.
Look to the light
and be.
I would like to keep my
wings, dragonfly said.
I like to fly.

Whale Sleep

My worth,
like pink coral,
scrapes against
your soul, asking
can you feel me,
swaying, bubbling
in dreams.
Enough is enough.
You mean…I can be…me?
“said the blackbird”
as he longingly eyed
lunch.

His scent
forever lingers
in our memory
of a night
on a beach,
dancing
in the moon’s light,
the stars’ light.
I shall not dine on
the dragon fly, but
we shall eat cake!

Nothing is more
beautiful than dragon’s
wings, shimmering
in sunlight.
it will take
another siren’s song
for dragonfly.

Behind the leaf
of a bush,
I searched for you,
slipped silent past
your heart
to breathe
goodnight,
goodnight like the dragonfly,
goodnight.

Our poetry jam Tuesday night set a record for participants – a total of 12, almost 13, with a record number of prompts by @tspoetry (28 in all). All of the prompts were taken from The Squirrel’s Birthday and Other Parties by Toon Tellegen.

A few changes for this TweetSpeak poem.

First, I’ve modified the usual approach to editing one of our poetry jams and moved all of the prompts to the very end.

Second, the large number of tweets, and the larger number of participants, more than doubled the overall length of the final. So I’ve edited the contributions into smaller but related poems, and this post is only Part 1. Part 2 will come tomorrow.

Third, I’ve generally followed the chronological order in which the contributions were made, but I had to make some changes, because a few of the tweets fell later in the flow. So I moved them where they fit.

Fourth, I had to create some post-jam transitions.

All of that said, this turned out to be, I think, the best one yet.

The Animals Come to a Party: Poems

By @Doallas, @llbarkat, @RobinMArnold, @redclaydiaries, @lauraboggess, @poemsandprayers, @mxings, @shrinkingcamel, @TchrEric, @mhsteger, @gyoung9751 and @moondustwriter; prompted by @tspoetry; some inspiration by @lorrie58; and a smidgen of editing by @gyoung9751

Gifts

Gifts of wood
warm me,
gifts of honey
make me sweet
gifts of air;
help me send
my word
to you,
your word
so sweet,
dewy with
anticipation.

The gift a giver;
the gift of steam
and scent;
the gift of
impatience.

Shivering under a quilt,
I wished for a gift of wood.

Party Treats to Eat

Cake so sweet
lasts not long.
Scent, however, lingers
as fine a memory as any.
Honey flowing,
smooth as a river.
Did someone say cake?
Someone definitely said
that magic word of
flour and icing.
Cake!

Dragonfly cake
Glistens
with dew of tongue.
Dragonfly
on air,
barely there like gossamer,
sweet emerald, sapphire
gift.
Sapphire wings
carry scent to me,
emerald me,
bewitch the cake maker.
Gems for
a gem
held close
take flight.
Emerald memories
Sparkle
yet illuminate not.

Torn wisps,
whipped clouds,
sugar on cone like air.
Sugar water
is sweet on
skin.
Memory of home,
memory of then,
dragonfly hovers, turns,
returns
on sugary wings
of gossamer.

Sugar cone,
your lips pressed to
waffled edge,
and I wish I were, for
this moment,
vanilla, or even pistachio.
I would take you where I could go,
if I could.

Where Water Ends

If I were impatient for you
dear, for sapphire moments,
emerald memories,
would you take me
where water ends
sweet as dew
kissed night?
Water
so elemental
refreshes the thirst
and lets glisten
both sapphire wings
and emerald eyes.

Slow air moving
touches the fog
blue web of evening.
The field empty, the water still,
the glade yet untouched.
The water lily,
Pink petals closed,
Green leaf shining wet.

The Birds Peck at Cakes

Ah, but the scent of cake draws me,
deep thick fog
carries scents
of spice-filled cakes
across still waters,
drawing you near
the cake maker.

Cakes half eaten,
strewn on dew-covered grass;
a lone blue heron
majestically nibbles
edges of sugared icing.
The man of words
sees the cake;
he brings sweet icing.
I can’t say,
wasn’t that a party? Can I?
And what was in the
cake exactly?

Feathers of swan
lightly trip
the air;
beak of heron catches wind
song of thrush;
sings yet of you
lost in fog’s deep ink.
Glass water
reveals what is in
your eyes.

Through the fog
a blackbird,
Red-winged blackbird
perched in dormant eastern
sun
like love’s death
cawing
heart, takes wing;
words die
and love falters
again.
Stop, sings the blackbird;
the south wind is blowing.

Technical Interruption

Suddenly, from the other,
underworldly place, the
one never spoken of,
reached through rooted earth,
(SURPRISE!).
A camel, shrunken, joins the party.
A dromedary,
emerging from leaf litter,
proclaimed,
“I’ma let you finish, but…”

I’m here;
just copying and
pasting like a
crazy person.
Midwestern man
copies love,
death, kisses
into boxes.

And he, the speechwriter,
he that cutteth and pasteth
with due nobility,
doth increaseth his
worth among the
frenzied minstrels.

Thus the camel,
he that speaketh in
King James tongue
rather than poetic rhyme,
he worries that he hath
made ruinous plunder.
G’NIGHT!

The camel,
having been through the marsh,
exits through the trees.
Ah, camel, come back;
you stay not long
enough.

Party Songs

Birds falling from sky,
what kind of greeting
might this be,
what omen yet awaits the telling?
Is it possible they have
forgotten my memory?
Is it possible you have forgotten?

A birthday perhaps/you, never.
Swaying fingers
above half-
closed lids
sing lullaby;
I’ll wait for you.

This
looking glass
is broken;
the jagged edge
of broken
looking glass
reflects the beauty
of the broken
and one is made whole.
A looking glass,
lighting softly,
and looking to see,
a mirror
filled to overflowing,
warm and still,
half or whole? I cannot tell.

Mole and earthworm:
who would think
ones so different
could a dance make.
Mole and earthworm
sang through the night,
first one, then the other. Their
dance shakes beech
to core
unquietly bending limbs,
swaying limbs
ground-touching.

Once, the dragonfly glowed
like moon cake crumbs
strewn o’er waters;
I nibble at the memory of it,
feeling light through dark
reaching up and back again
and back again.
The crumbs of cake stale,
facets of stone,
unbreakable,
hardened bits
of sugar
sink.

The Hippo in the Trees?

Where are you?
Hippo has no time,
for moon cake
make him sleepy.
A hippo in
deciduous mixed
growth forest?
Twas hippo looked
in looking glass;
no friend it be.
Shall I creep
through underbrush to find
you, sugar-crusted against
the starry night?
Seriously, where are you?

Camel and hippo,
fighting sleep, pillage mooncakes
and spook herons.
Mist glistening
on hippo’s back,
re-casting star
light
hide not
on starry night.

Whale? Hippo?
The camel pondered as he plundered,
then concluded that he
should’ve passed on those cakes.
Hippo searched
and found
the one place
he might be alone
off water’s edge.
Deep in he went,
Silence
his friend.
and slept,
dreaming of emerald
blue and sky.

Alone, you lay
upon the rocks.
I remember your shadow
Salted.
Tender light of morning
stains the sky,
tangled in dreams,
draped and strewn
angel wings or dragonfly
iridescent camouflage.

Prompts

All prompting quotes were taken from The Squirrel’s Birthday: and Other Parties by Toon Tellegen.

”Gifts of wood, gifts of honey, and gifts of air, gifts to eat and gifts to put on your head in wintertime, or on your tail…”
“He thought deeply and then baked a cake made of only water for the dragonfly.”
“Most of the cakes were still steaming and spreading a sweet scent. They seemed to be glistening with impatience.”
“Is it possible that they have forgotten it’s my birthday?”
“The swan and the heron swooped down from the sky, followed by the thrush.”
“They ate for hours and hours, until everyone fell over, slipped to the ground to lie on his back in the grass…”
“And there were still half and whole cakes everywhere.”
“The thrush, the blackbird, and the nightingale sang a song on a branch in the middle of the beech tree…”
“The thrush, the blackbird, and the nightingale sang a song on a branch in the middle of the beech tree…”
“Under the ground, between the roots of the beech tree, the mole and the earthworm danced.”
“The glowworm didn’t glow anymore, and the hippo yawned, stretched, and disappeared in the undergrowth.”
“The mist crept low over the ground and wrapped itself around the bushes.”
“Far away in the ocean, between a few rocks close to the bottom of a trough, lived the whale.”
“He lay motionless in the deep water and gazed into the distance.”
“He lay there all alone. He didn’t get many visitors.”
“Dear Whale, I’m not sure if you exist, but I’m inviting you to my party anyway. Tomorrow on the beach. If you exist, will you come?” signed, “The seagull”
“The whale was so surprised that he sighed deeply and briefly lost sight of the whole world.”
“And from the deepest depths of the ocean, he swam to the beach. He arrived there early in the evening.”
“the whole beach was decorated with algae, seaweed and shells, and other things he’d never seen before.”
“That evening the whale met the shark, the dogfish, and the skate; he saw the tern and the albatross and even the ant.”
“…the whale rested a fin on the seagull’s shoulder, while the seagull draped a wing around the whale’s middle.”
“Then they danced, silently and seriously, on the moon-drenched beach, to the sound of the slow surf.”
“Everyone held their breath and thought, ‘No one has ever danced like this before.’
“As far as he was concerned, time could stop right there, that night, on the beach, at the seagull’s party.”
“You know,” the dragonfly said, “I’m always afraid that I won’t have enough, or that it’ll be worthless–that’s why I hide.”
“But the dragonfly had already disappeared behind a leaf of the bush, early on the evening of his birthday.”