Doors & Passageways Poetry Prompts
1. Write a poem that includes both a dancer and a door. How will the two interact? Are you outside watching the dancer, or inside hearing the sounds and seeing the shadows beyond the door?
2. Or, write a poem in which you find yourself needed to do some kind of performance to get the door to your dreams open. Who will you be? (Dancer? Clown? Painter? Truck driver?) What will you do to get the door open?
Thanks to our participants in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s part of a recent poem we enjoyed from Darlene…
excerpt…
Take-out coffee found a photograph.
An edge of wilderness town, rough and poor –
Who knows what happened to this store
with fancy bricks above white plywood nailed
doors?
Take-out coffee is always too hot.
Photo by Aimanness, Creative Commons, via Flickr.
______
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Elizabeth W. Marshall says
Dreamer
Through a door suspended
Between
Open
&
Closed
A narrow space
Width of a just new virgin moon
Appearing in an ebony sky
Carried light
Across a worn out floor
One of heavy wooden beams
She, solitary, alone
Gathered all she’d need
To carry on with her well-worn dreams
En pointe she was
Closer
Or so it always seemed,
Further
From failing
Raised up, head in the clouds
En pointe
Queen for a day
She, her dreams of mastering
Her passion, her love, her ballet
Squeezed through a narrow door
Suspended between
Open
&
Closed.
nance.mdr says
i like the door “suspended”
Richard Maxson says
Elizabeth, the rhythm of this is as descriptive as the words, the stops and starts, rising and falling. Beautifully expressed.
SimplyDarlene says
worn out
squeezed
suspended
iLike!
Heather Eure says
Ah, yes… Gathering our needs. Carrying on, well-worn dreams in tow.
I can feel that sentiment in my bones.
Sandra Heska King says
Solitary and alone… to carry on well-worn dreams…
Donna says
I pulled that line too… love it so much: “carry on with her well-worn dreams”. I felt heaviness in her legs when I read it….
Glynn says
I went looking for a scene, and I found it. http://faithfictionfriends.blogspot.com/2014/01/dancers-and-dreams.html
nance.mdr says
merrily
life is but a dance
Heather Eure says
The question of knowing how to dream. Transformation and becoming through dance.
I like that very much.
When I was a girl, I had a Degas print, The Dancing Class in my room. Spent countless hours peering into that world. Your words captured it.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Edgar_Germain_Hilaire_Degas_021.jpg
Donna says
Glynn, I love this line…
“no one
is watching, not even the artist
seeing only his own impressions”
I wondered if they mind that no one is watching? Or are they freer because of it?
Sandra Heska King says
I gave it a whirl.
http://sandraheskaking.com/2014/01/poetry-hinged/
nance.mdr says
good old broken locks…
Richard Maxson says
I like that you found your way through a keyhole.
Heather Eure says
Ah, yes. The hinge. Hard-worn effort and triumph. Hopeful. Thanks, Sandra.
Donna says
🙂 A whirl!
Love this… she dances on and on… slipping through keyholes and doors numbered 3 hinged on dreams… so many dreams, all in so few lines. So great, Sandra.
nance.mdr says
doors and passageways…dancers and dreams
http://nancemarie.blogspot.com/2014/01/january-27.html
Heather Eure says
Bittersweet memory. Time as a passage. …and the heart breaks.
Jenn says
Thank you for this prompt! I loved this poetic experience. Tapping – http://www.jennstwosteps.blogspot.com/2014/01/dancers-and-doorways.html
Heather Eure says
What a dear memory. Thanks so much for sharing!
Sandra Heska King says
This made me smile.
Julie A. Olson says
The Mind’s Door
Julie A. Olson
January 27, 2014
She danced in her mind, the
only place
she could cut a rug anymore.
Even there the
door slammed shut
without warning.
How was it, that what
seemed like yesterday
was in truth
a life time ago?
And today
has already been forgotten?
Posted by juliea at 9:04 PM
Heather Eure says
The gift of remembrance can indeed fade. Thank you for sharing your poem.
SimplyDarlene says
iLike the impact of the time and date… 😉
nance.mdr says
the
only place
she could cut a rug anymore
love it
jane r williams says
Dusting off my dancing poetry shoes. Thanks for the opportunity.
http://inplainjaneview.wordpress.com/2012/12/02/the-dance/
Heather Eure says
Your words transcend time and theaters of war. Thank you, glad you posted this.
SimplyDarlene says
I got the beat.
I was weaned on Cash and cut
my teeth on Kristofferson. I ate
Presley like other children
ate peanut M&Ms and stuck
tongues inside Twinkies.
I got the beat.
I shaved my pits and
nicked my legs to Springfield,
and Springsteen. I cruised Friday
night beach routes with my girls
Aretha and B. Raitt.
I got the beat.
I tended to my upper
learning with country boys.
I guzzled hot shots
of Strait and chugged down LeDoux, yes
in my 2-steppin’ cowboy boots.
I got the beat.
I might be old enough to know
better (& pluck the random
gray hair), but I don’t give
a rip as I blow dust and crank
it up with all my friends.
I got the beat.
My son stares in
wonder, horror, delight –
he giggles as I swing him
western-style, then runs for his bedroom
and shuts the door when he’s full up
because his momma won’t let go of the beat.
Heather Eure says
Youthful exuberance with a little grit. Thanks for sharing!
Sandra Heska King says
Don’t ever let go of that beat, Miss Darlene! Oh, the memories that boy will have when he gets older. (I’m thinking of him tonight and lifting a special prayer.)
nance.mdr says
wonder, horror, delight –
i like those mixed emotions
Rosanne Osborne says
http://poetryhawk.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-knell.html
Heather Eure says
Such imagery! I can still smell the decay of the house. Thanks for letting me journey, Rosanne.
Sandra Heska King says
I wasn’t expecting that ending.
Heather says
I decided to give it a go 🙂
http://www.mymelodiousheart.com/2014/01/poem-dancer-and-door.html
Heather Eure says
To save herself. Clever rhyming. Thanks!
Sandra Heska King says
“To dance a life of beauty.” I love that line.
Lorretta says
“Ginosko”
Voices
from the hallway
fade with every step.
Noises
in my soul
screaming louder
yet, this journey-
to or away or
as far as I can get
from or within?
I don’t know.
The silvery
click of metal and hasp
secures the knob to
an almost empty room
Shelves, a chair
high windows surround,
my steps,
a muffled sound
there’s no one else here
or around.
I can breathe.
Maybe.
Here
Alone.
So it seems.
Afraid? Maybe.
Weary and worn out.
I don’t mind the silence.
much.
rest.
wait.
watch.
listen.
heal.
It’s the Light that
startles me
catches me
by surprise.
It’s the Light
shining around
beneath and
between the cracks
through the dimness-
the almost darkness-
it’s the Light
drawing me to my feet.
To see
a door
a knob
a key
pressed into my palm
the Light that
calls me to come….
And play?
To step through
into
a bigger, a wider,
an opener space
where heart and mind
never dreamed
of a place… so full.
Of Word and wordlings
Of sharers and dreamers
Ministers and the gleaners
from the fields of endless grace.
Ready to feed.
my need
and yours.
Ready to reach
and teach
each one here…
called out
drawn out
by the Light
into the Light
for the Light
Space enough for me, my heart
my baggage and the fine lines
of wisdom forming around my eyes…
my now smiling eyes.
Because I am one too
having passed through
the Door.
Named and claimed and known:
ginosko
Heather Eure says
“I can breathe. Maybe.” I like the difficulty captured here. Thank you, Loretta.
Sandra Heska King says
“I don’t mind the silence. much.” You know I’d like that. 😉
It’s fun to see you here, Lorretta.
Donna says
a glance
offers a chance
threshold crossing
to a little romance
take a chance?
…dance!
Donna says
invited.
a glance
reveals a chance
threshold crossing
to a little romance
a door has opened…
dance!
Richard Maxson says
http://theimaginedjay.com/?p=65
SimplyDarlene says
http://simplydarlene.com/2014/01/30/golden-legs-good-night-kisses/
Here’s a childhood memory (via poem) (via poetry prompt).
Blessings.
carise says
She is ready.
Nervous amongst the competition.
The door to back stage is open.
Here she stands.
Neck stretched long.
Like a swan.
Her thin frame yearns.
She breathes. Deep.
Waiting, her fingers caress the air.
Practicing. Going over what is now rote.
Striving with each muscle to personify bursting passion and coolness of beauty.
Her ears grope for her que.
When she can become a dream in reality.
For a moment.
She waits in the dark.
Big black walls on each side creating short halls to the stage. The wings.
Her ear perks up.
The violin has begun.
Her heart brims with desire.
No longer a mere girl. She is a woman.
A queen. A heavenly being.
Leaping forward she is spun into the heavens.
Her point shoes kissing the floor with each step.
No longer tired.
No longer lonely.
No longer in need.
As the music sweeps and carries, she is alive.
Bursting with love and purity the music slows.
Breathing hard.
She changes.
Her hair comes down.
Picks up her old car keys.
She looks back.
The stage door is closed.
JoyAnne O'Donnell says
Dancing door
opens me
into the light
of poetry…
Ashley Larkin @ Draw Near says
http://ashleymlarkin.com/2014/02/06/the-wardrobe-and-the-storm/
She pushes past coats in the wardrobe, like Lucy seeking light from the lamp post
that stands stalwart,
looks to the whirl of flakes in that hidden place,
the unfolding mystery of choreography
It’s a struggle to the center of things because this room
with wood floors and long drapes is not all,
and a near middle-aged lady too can wonder what lives beyond
woolen and water-repellant nylon and
long ago scents of mothballs,
through that door
In the late afternoon, this same woman might watch water
run down a cutting board for longer than you might imagine,
rivulets cutting lines through her middle,
lost at the kitchen sink in thoughts of aches that don’t fade
and ways humans stuff holes with dirty rags
to keep the wind from rushing in straight,
and she’ll sway
And later she might find herself sitting behind a closed bedroom door
for silence sake listening
to clattering branches and roars that force themselves down streets,
waiting for a storm and snow to fill holes,
make a scribbled page fresh
Donna says
This poem stirs a lot of emotion for me, all the way through. I particularly love these words, Ashley…
“lost at the kitchen sink in thoughts of aches that don’t fade”
and these
“for silence sake”
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
Ashley I am lost in your words making it hard for me to find the ones that hold the most power and beauty. I find myself burrowing in the lines. Wonderful to see you here. You and your art always add soul-full beauty to my days.
David Moore says
13 DOORS
He stands in the room with thirteen doors
and mutters to himself
as he turns to face each one in turn.
Pachelbel’s Canon sways lazily about,
notes, hand in hand
clad in purple robes
and dancing in unison.
His eyes reflect deepest amethyst
as the song concludes it’s movement.
He steps forth to the nearest door.
In the room beyond
frolic skateboard dreams and hopscotch pies.
The corners of his lips turn in a wistful smile
but the crash of the door closing
echoes with aubergine finality.
He returns to the center of the room
But his chair is gone
and twelve doors still beckon.
The next frames brake-light perfume
and walls painted with violet anticipation.
Boy bands cavort with sexpot divas
atop a bass-speaker laden trunk.
All strangled to silence
at the click of a lock.
Through the third can be seen a bar
lined with shot glasses
filled with desperation and desolate tears.
Shut forever behind solid carved oak.
One by one the doors slam to
and the handles melt into the walls.
Piece by piece the furnishings fade away
until the room is bare
and one door remains.
Through the door, lavender fog eddies,
formless, shapeless potential striving for shape.
But the door silently shuts
and seals it off evermore.
He stands alone in a room with no doors
and slowly fades away.