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Shakespeare & Company: This One Doesn’t Belong Photo & Poetry Prompt

By L.L. Barkat 31 Comments

This One Doesn't Belong Photo Prompt Bus in Field
In the plays Hamlet and Macbeth, Shakespeare uses the shock of “this one doesn’t belong” when he introduces various ghosts into the action.

The ghosts then spur more action, from madness to murder. Says Macbeth when seeing Banquo’s ghost:

Blood hath been shed ere now, i’ the olden time,
Ere humane statute purged the gentle weal;
Ay, and since too, murders have been perform’d
Too terrible for the ear: the times have been,
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools: this is more strange
Than such a murder is.

Strangeness arrests. It can cause inquiry, new vision, fear, a will to act (or not act). Let’s harness the power of strangeness in this week’s prompt.

Photo Play and Poetry Prompt: This One Doesn’t Belong

Option 1

“A character walks into the kitchen at the end of the day. He finds something on the kitchen table that is not supposed to be there.” (from The Pocket Muse, by Monica Wood).

Share a photo or a poem or even the opening of a story, based on Monica Wood’s prompt.

Option 2

Craft a poem, take a photo, or make a piece of art that responds to the photo in this post.

Featured Dream Poems

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a poem we enjoyed from Glynn Young:

Anne Hathaway’s Dream

I dreamed, Will.

I dreamed of London and its crowds,
its noise and even its city stink

I dreamed of hearing the Danish prince
and the Scot usurper and St. Crispin’s Day
and the king’s daughters,

and seeing them, Will, in garish torchlight.

I dreamed I saw the Queen, Will,
nodding to the crowd as she walked
by the white hall palace, and I chanced
a smile, Will, and she returned it.

I dreamed I saw the river, Will, and rode
a barge close by the Globe.

And nobles in the finery and common folk
in plain dress, both clean and dirty, and I dodged
the bedpan emptied from above,
and I watched the crowd watch a hanging
or two. Or three. They brought refreshments
with them.

And the food, Will, the food in the taverns,
and the drinking with Marlowe and the Earl,
and the laughter and the arguments and seeing
them all, even you, scratch quills on parchment.

I don’t want to die too soon, Will.
I want to dream again.
I want to dream, Will.

—Glynn Young

Because it’s hard to get enough of dreams, we’re indulging and featuring a second poem this week as well. From Heather Eure, an untitled dream:

the marble relief of a man and horse in flight
could be written into a grand epic

an old villager heard my thoughts and said
it’s best to rethink it

some forgotten battle alone and outnumbered
running in retreat

the steed decided to turn galloping to the fight
running over the heads of their enemy

their heroic escape cut short with an
accidental leap into a boiling vat

the town’s embarrassment the old man said
the only document a proverb

something about never allowing your horse
an opportunity to make decisions

or to never name your son Kenneth
he forgot which

—Heather Eure

Photo by Robb North, Creative Commons, via Flickr.

Browse more Shakespeare
Browse more writing prompts
Browse more dream poems

  • Author
  • Recent Posts
L.L. Barkat
L.L. Barkat
L.L. Barkat is the Managing Editor of Tweetspeak Poetry and the author of six books for grown-ups and four for children, including the popular 'Rumors of Water: Thoughts on Creativity & Writing.' Her poetry has appeared on the BBC and at NPR, VQR, and The Best American Poetry.
L.L. Barkat
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Filed Under: Blog, Dream Poems, Photo Play, poetry prompt, poetry teaching resources, Shakespeare, Shakespeare-Themed Poems, Themed Writing Projects, writing prompts

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About L.L. Barkat

L.L. Barkat is the Managing Editor of Tweetspeak Poetry and the author of six books for grown-ups and four for children, including the popular 'Rumors of Water: Thoughts on Creativity & Writing.' Her poetry has appeared on the BBC and at NPR, VQR, and The Best American Poetry.

Comments

  1. Carri Kuhn says

    June 15, 2015 at 2:09 pm

    (Photo play and poetry prompt: This One Doesn’t Belong)

    Kitchen surprise

    Late coming home
    the kitchen silent
    half lit
    and empty
    the countertop littered
    with crayons and paint
    glue and scissors
    glitter everywhere
    sticking to my shoes
    my hands
    my jacket
    a stick family of three
    on the pink page
    wobbly hearts and spidery lines
    to welcome me home

    Reply
    • Donna Z Falcone says

      June 18, 2015 at 10:01 am

      FUN! And sparkly!
      I love how you call it a surprise and not a mess! This is so sweet. 🙂

      Reply
  2. L. L. Barkat says

    June 15, 2015 at 3:40 pm

    I like the idea that maybe this stick family made itself (and the slow discovery to be had by the speaker getting glittery along the way before discovering them 🙂 )

    Reply
  3. Richard Maxson says

    June 16, 2015 at 4:39 am

    Umbrella

    I freeze in the doorway
    with an umbrella,
    rain coming in;
    your mask in this light, arresting.

    From the kitchen table,
    you hold an heirloom
    as you decide whether to run
    or stand in defiance.

    All the warnings come,
    the photos,
    do not confront,
    walk away if you can,
    many seriously hurt,
    a rash of rural break-ins.

    You drop the sugar bowl,
    it lands unbroken,
    for a moment—relief,
    but you are coming toward me.

    I watch the eyes
    behind the mask, then
    you turn
    for the open door,
    slip and recover,
    the rings of your tail
    disappearing into night,
    like a Cheshire cat.

    Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      June 16, 2015 at 2:58 pm

      Slip and recover,/the rings of your tail… That’s my favorite part, Richard. Only a poet could describe a break-in with such beauty.

      Did you wield your umbrella like The Kingsman? 🙂

      Reply
      • Rick Maxson says

        June 17, 2015 at 4:09 am

        I was prepared and am skilled with an umbrella, but alas it was there as an allusion to something.

        Reply
    • Donna Z Falcone says

      June 16, 2015 at 8:36 pm

      Ha! You had me at “I freeze in the doorway.” I was all in – imagining the intruder, wondering, though, how it is that you are okay, because to be writing this poem you must be okay. I was so relieved to discover rings of a tail! 🙂 This is why I cannot watch scary movies!

      Reply
      • Rick Maxson says

        June 17, 2015 at 4:14 am

        In North Carolina Rocky Raccoon paid me lots of visits, even brought his kids at one point. Only once did he get into the house.

        My wife used to hate scary movies, but I converted her. I knew she was cured when she had to beg me to watch The Walking Dead; I hate most zombie movies, but then TWD wasn’t scary as much as it was dramatic, disgusting and creepy, but I’m a fan.

        Reply
  4. Glynn says

    June 16, 2015 at 9:06 am

    I really liked the photograph.

    The corn came marching

    He knew that things were well
    he knew that things were good
    until the corn came marching
    out from Birnam Wood

    The wanderer had plainly told him
    all life would be well and good
    unless the corn came marching
    out from Birnam Wood

    He stole his brother’s farm
    he stole his father’s food
    and still no corn came marching
    out from Birnam Wood.

    He turned widows out from houses
    and orphans from their rooms
    and laughed at the corn not marching
    out from Birnam Wood.

    Interest he squeezed and loans he sucked
    from neighbors until they cried;
    the corn did not come marching
    out from Birnam Wood.

    How long, O Lord, how long,
    Have these evils you withstood?
    And still no corn came marching
    Out from Birnam Wood.

    The more he controlled, the more he gained
    and taken more he would,
    until the day the wanderer came
    in a bus out of Birnam wood.

    And he saw, at last, corn marching,
    corn marching to where he stood.
    In rows the corn came marching
    out from Birnam Wood.

    Reply
    • Donna Z Falcone says

      June 16, 2015 at 8:37 pm

      Gulp!

      Reply
  5. nancy davis says

    June 16, 2015 at 11:43 am

    oh my.

    Reply
  6. nancy davis says

    June 16, 2015 at 12:50 pm

    Nancy Davis
    Thoughts

    My one true love
    I saw in the cornstalks
    like a shadow

    the brown leaves
    barely hiding
    the shape i remember

    waiting there
    with other shapes
    of things past

    a rusty school bus
    evokes voices
    of children gone

    reluctantly
    i begin
    to take my leave

    the crisp fall wind
    helping to turn
    thoughts toward home

    Reply
    • Donna Z Falcone says

      June 16, 2015 at 8:41 pm

      The crisp fall wind
      helping…

      that’s such a great image.

      Reply
      • Donna Z Falcone says

        June 16, 2015 at 8:43 pm

        It makes me think of an arm around the shoulders, giving gentle nudges.

        Reply
  7. Heather Eure says

    June 16, 2015 at 3:24 pm

    Hey, I’m hanging out on the page with Glynn! Thanks. 😀

    Since my middle son is heading to college and I live where the corn is tasseling right now, this motherly mind found a connection.

    the tassels have turned
    lanky stalks are moving on
    a silent bus weeps

    Reply
    • Donna Z Falcone says

      June 16, 2015 at 8:39 pm

      The tassels have turned… love that.

      Reply
  8. Rick Maxson says

    June 17, 2015 at 4:32 am

    The Cornfield and the Yellow Bus
    —after Robert Frost

    I’m going out to see the yellow bus;
    The children of the corn may pass that way
    (And stop to chat with them awhile, I may):
    I shan’t be gone long—You come too.

    The flattened corn in lines and circles halved
    A mystery how they got there ‘round the bus;
    Perhaps some spacemen came to visit us.
    I might be gone long—You come too.

    Reply
    • L. L. Barkat says

      June 19, 2015 at 10:37 am

      Fun little poem!

      Reply
  9. S. Etole says

    June 17, 2015 at 9:21 pm

    Based on this line: “A character walks into the kitchen at the end of the day. He (She) finds something on the kitchen table that is not supposed to be there.” (from The Pocket Muse, by Monica Wood).

    https://www.flickr.com/photos/45405642@N08/18719741118/in/dateposted-public/

    Lines from Nancy’s poem also served as a prompt.

    Reply
    • Rick Maxson says

      June 18, 2015 at 9:32 am

      Hmmmm, very telling scene. Nicely done!

      Reply
      • S. Etole says

        June 18, 2015 at 12:16 pm

        Thank you, Rick.

        Reply
  10. Donna Z Falcone says

    June 18, 2015 at 8:26 am

    I knew if I waited long enough, something strange would materialize on my kitchen table. 🙂

    http://www.donnazfalcone.com/poetry/brains-for-breakfast

    Reply
    • Rick Maxson says

      June 18, 2015 at 9:35 am

      Whole brains are best too! Much healthier. 🙂

      Reply
      • Donna says

        June 18, 2015 at 4:09 pm

        Well, as long as you don’t cook ’em. 😉

        Reply
  11. Monica Sharman says

    June 20, 2015 at 3:11 pm

    Is it too late to turn in a photo? These didn’t show up on my table until yesterday. I realize food on a table doesn’t exactly fit “this doesn’t belong” — except that, having grown up a city girl, I would never, ever can my own cherries and apricot jam. 🙂

    https://www.flickr.com/photos/monica-sharman/18371962964/

    Reply
    • L. L. Barkat says

      June 20, 2015 at 4:17 pm

      Not too late! 🙂

      So… how did they mysteriously appear? (And I’m a country girl who never cans, but today I actually canned two jars of currant jam! So many currants still to pick, too. 🙂 )

      Reply
  12. Joy Lenton says

    June 20, 2015 at 5:14 pm

    Thoughts stirred by the photo:

    Lost bus
    An abandoned school bus
    sits forlorn midst
    slender strands of corn
    with an air of devil-may-care
    dishevelment
    and a coating of rust
    Autumnal full, replete
    Its heart beats strong
    with memories
    from far off days
    when loose-limbed youth
    climbed aboard with ease
    And even now, bent and bowed
    it waits in Elysian Fields
    ready to dream a while
    as hope grows fresh and green
    ©JoyLenton2015

    Reply
  13. lynn__ says

    June 25, 2015 at 8:32 pm

    One of These Things is NOT Like the Others…

    Did you happen to see who parked that old school bus in our ripe cornfield?

    (clipping two-for-one coupons, ignoring date of old advertisement)

    Must be local school board member implementing common core standards.

    (weather report for last chance of severe thunderstorm activity)

    Kids should not be bullied into eating apples on abandoned bus!

    (cry of neighbor’s peacock sounds like someone is torturing a cat)

    With the corn price falling, maybe we should leave rusty bus in the field.

    (wondering how open-minded you can be before your brain rolls out?)

    Reply
    • lynn__ says

      June 25, 2015 at 8:37 pm

      i’m rather late to join…and my post may not sound like poetry but written as “american sentences” (17 syllables each). thanks for interesting photo!

      Reply
    • L. L. Barkat says

      June 26, 2015 at 8:37 pm

      This was just such a fun poem. Surreal. Sometimes amusing. Sometimes almost creepy. Glad you shared 🙂

      Reply

Trackbacks

  1. One of these things is not like the others | a poem in my pocket says:
    June 26, 2015 at 11:59 am

    […] photo borrowed from TweetSpeak Poetry […]

    Reply

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