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
“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.
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
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.
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
Photo by Robb North, Creative Commons, via Flickr.
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