Have you ever opened a can only to find that what was supposed to be inside was not what you found? (If you have prankster friends who’ve changed your can labels, maybe you can answer yes: yes, I found peaches in the diced tomatoes can and onion soup in the green beans can. Regardless of your can-surprise history, perhaps you’ll be willing to try your hand at this week’s…
Poetry Prompt
We’re used to the old image of a Message in a Bottle. What if you opened a can or bottle and found something else wholly unexpected? A mermaid in a tuna can. A gold ring in your Chicken O’s Soup. A water nymph in your favorite wine. How did the item get there? What happens now that you’ve discovered it? Put the experience in a poem.
Thanks to our participants in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a poem we enjoyed from Richard Maxson, who tried out one of our recent poetry prompts:
Saffron
From out of the cockled skirts,
the heels and castanets,
you found me,
your crimson threads,
the passion of guitars.
I might have been a gypsy,
the light, ascending flames,
Paseo del Prado,
Madrid transformed,
as evening did all things mortal,
beyond the courtyard,
collecting the esplanades
of great trees into forests,
the fountains into rivers.
Flower of the fall,
with your feast of flesh,
your gentle tongue on mine,
soft and lingering kiss,
my sultry Spanish dancer.
—Richard Maxson
Photo by coda Creative Commons, via Flickr.
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Sometimes we feature your poems in Every Day Poems, with your permission of course. Thanks for writing with us!
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Maureen Doallas says
Lovely poem, Richard!
davis says
hot and sexy words, richard.
…now, to discover mystery contents of questionable cans and bottles.
HisFireFly says
posted my “surprise” on my blog today:
http://hisfirefly.blogspot.ca/2013/08/broken-promise.html
the label screamed
bold colours shining
all you need
and more
popping the top
ready for fizz
sparkle, what was
promised
I lifted the can
thirsty lips parted
head tilted just
enough to receive
the quenching
all you need and more
the promise, broken
as dry sand poured
taking breath
leaving only
less
L. L. Barkat says
again, I am loving where your poetry is going these days. It’s become more essential.
I especially like the repetition of sounds in “parted” and “tilted”—as if you were actually taking a drink in two motions.
Richard Maxson says
I enjoyed this as well. When I read it aloud the pace seemed to mock the pace of commercial advertising. The sounds were very well put together.
davis says
this makes me thirsty…
Maureen Doallas says
Can-ditioned
Nobody goes to the dogs
to ask them what they want
to eat. We throw them
a bone to make them dance
for the crisp, pebbled rounds
of crunchies they crave.
Front paws prodding air,
they never mistake the sigh
that’s let go with the pop
of the top of a can at three,
the opener done teething
its way through aluminum
to expose that solid core
of potato and duck and water
sufficient for processing.
Pavlov got their connection
between having and want,
simple need the greater hunger
measured by an extra spoonful.
Richard Maxson says
Can-ditioned, indeed! This could only come from experience with dogs and/or cats.
Richard Maxson says
I’m not that sure about this one. It plays off HisFireFly’s a little, I think.
Dernier Cri
What if the iPod, Blackberry and Wii,
the Razor and Xbox, or the endless
new foods and drinks were name-neutral?
Instead of Cinnamon Marshmallow Scooby-Doo,
or Seattle’s Best, Newman’s Own coffees,
the White Ice Teas, the better-made best
stuff on Earth, made-to-order Tides and Green Mountains;
what if all were named Dernier Cri?
Every iteration named like Frank Wakefield
names his mandolin tunes—
Jesus Loves This Mandolin Player #2,
Jesus Loves This Mandolin Player #67.
No more delusions like Best and Healthy,
or Classic. We would be free from the curse
of canned and bottled adjectives confounding
our choices. If there were Dernier Cri #5,
Dernier Cri #183, what then?
Which would we choose, in their illustrious
boxes, the layers of packaging,
each revealing a different material
concealing the prize, as we dig like
paleontologists for the celebrated bones,
past gauzy Styrofoam, boxes in boxes of
felt lined compartments, their Nalgene™ skeletons
pressed out through a wonder of technology,
slanted on each side to a 57.01234 degree angle
meant to cast a slight shading between the latest
thing and its subtly disappearing edge.
At last, you reach the desired strata,
the find, the presentation layer,
framed in shadow, the User Manual
in Vellum Bristol, nestled in a niche
on the underside of the lid, calculated to impress.
The thing itself covered in a unique wrap
of bubbles, each tiny dome bearing
a DC acronym, lying gently over your quest,
3.003145 by 5.889 inches,
the label in Garamond 9.5,
Sunlight on Wicker glaze, or Blue Tsunami,
the LED covered in smoke E-Z Peel™
film over a Satin Brushed finish,
the long awaited, Dernier Cri #1000.
davis says
i wonder if pavlov had a cat…
HisFireFly says
Maureen, you made me feel that space between having and want…
Richard Maxson says
Wow! Thanks for posting my poem from last week.
Donna says
I posted mine on my blog today.
The Key – http://thebrightersideblog.blogspot.com/2013/08/the-key.html
It’s interesting what can be found in bottles and cans…
L. L. Barkat says
Donna, your poem is really something. You made the rhymes work so well… they mirror that longing, that child-like hope.
Donna says
Thank you, LL. I tried to use Tania’s advice on attention to sounds… Reading it out loud, new for me, helped a lot. This is a great place to learn… 🙂
davis says
i like it. The key was a fun surprise.
davis says
the find
What is in there?
The voice of the small girl
was hushed.
The old tin can found,
while digging for fishing worms.
Marked with edges of rust.
A few small holes
poked into one end.
Appearing to have never been opened.
The label lost to decay.
The boy held it in his hand.
It felt light as if empty.
Heavy with resolution,
he dropped the can to the ground
and kicked it all the way home.