Twitter Poetry: Spinning for Tickets for a Prayer Wheel 3

At some point during the recent Tweetspeak Twitter poetry jam, the words and lines took a turn toward swans and music, gourds and petals. You read the lines and see the connections, understanding how the lines and words play against and with each other. Sometimes they join; sometimes they argue and fight, struggling as they do to emerge into a coherent story.

What struck me about this section of the jam was the sense of sadness that kept inserting itself. Perhaps it was the prompts from Tickets for a Prayer Wheel: Poems by Annie Dillard. Perhaps it was the mood of one or two participants that suggested itself to the others.

Despite the sadness, or because of it, some beautiful things emerged. Here are the next six poems from our Twitter poetry party. (The first group can be found here, and the second group here.)

Poems Inspired by Tickets for a Prayer Wheel

By @Doallas, @lwlindquist, @llbarkat, @SoniaJoie, @chrisyokel, @KathrynLNeel, @mmerubies, @lanearnold, @graceappears, @jen_rose, @BrighterSideblg, @flaxenprint, @Diana605, @VaporWhisp, and @MelJepson. Edited by @gyoung9751.

I am the swan
I am the swan pulled
laughing into space.
Breaking free.
Flown.
We are the wild swans
unclasped, floating miles apart,
and now in space, forever.
We are the wild swans
unclasped, satellites,
weaving between the gourds,
the petals, returning
with stories of our own,
our secret songs whispered
in words of petals, a lost secret
you never heard.
Halfway the swans, unclasped.
Halfway the petals, urging.
And to the universe the swans
still read that book of poetry.

Watch the laugh blossom

Watch the laugh blossom
Watch the blossom laugh
shaking spring rain
on my upturned face.
I dressed myself in petals,
grew tall my wedding day,
slippered feet in sandals,
lily lips that part halfway.
My bridesmaids were nothing
but petals in waiting.

Weave me a story

Weave me a story, you ask.
I will weave you anything,
Use all my favorite words, you say.
You pick the page. I’ll choose the ink.
You kiss me red. I’ll love you pink.
Book of poetry, you sing,
use all my favorite words.
Book of poetry, you call,
Bind us, weave us a story.
I dream of you. Always dream of you,
ink flowing down the page like a river,
words floating in gentle waves.

Music for strings

The universe plays blue music
upon an old guitar, thrumming,
drumming blue music, plucked,
strummed, picked.

A five-string blue grass banjo laughs;
Mama sang bluegrass gospel
with her Loretta-like voice
and I grew attuned to banjo strings
and steel guitar.

My fingers strum back, aching
to sip the sun. Chords I pluck
like a flower from a stream,
keeping them for blue music days.

Green skies, yellow thread

Green skies hold misted gourds,
all wrapped in yellow thread,
the Elvish fruit of summer.
We sing under yellow skies
to remember days of laughter,
days of misty blooming,
days of youth, days of swans
singing a song of sweet sorrow
as they died, their necks entwined
in finger shapes, your eyes
a mirror of the yellow day
when swans swam free.

Listening to gourds

Last night I dreamed of train wheels turning,
of people crying and songs burning
and my heart knowing it was time to say goodbye.
I put an ear to the gourd, the wild gourd.
I hear how it holds the sweet longings of seeing
your long-lashed golden eyes once more.
You never heard me tell how the swans
are a broken song, the damp castles keeping them
framed, one by one, until I fling them into space.
I fling the gourd.

Photograph by Vox Efx. Sourced via Flicker. Post by Poetry at Work™ post by Glynn Young, author of the novels Dancing Priest and the recently published A Light Shining.

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