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.
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.
Browse more Shakespeare
Browse more writing prompts
Browse more dream poems
- 10 Ways to Be a Totally Epic Literary Citizen - August 3, 2020
- The 7 Principles for Making Friendship Work—Part I, Myth Discoveries - July 11, 2020
- Poems From the Coffee Shop: Pine Needle Tea and Small Kindnesses - March 25, 2020
Carri Kuhn says
(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
Donna Z Falcone says
FUN! And sparkly!
I love how you call it a surprise and not a mess! This is so sweet. 🙂
L. L. Barkat says
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 🙂 )
Richard Maxson says
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.
Heather Eure says
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? 🙂
Rick Maxson says
I was prepared and am skilled with an umbrella, but alas it was there as an allusion to something.
Donna Z Falcone says
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!
Rick Maxson says
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.
Glynn says
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.
Donna Z Falcone says
Gulp!
nancy davis says
oh my.
nancy davis says
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
Donna Z Falcone says
The crisp fall wind
helping…
that’s such a great image.
Donna Z Falcone says
It makes me think of an arm around the shoulders, giving gentle nudges.
Heather Eure says
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
Donna Z Falcone says
The tassels have turned… love that.
Rick Maxson says
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.
L. L. Barkat says
Fun little poem!
S. Etole says
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.
Rick Maxson says
Hmmmm, very telling scene. Nicely done!
S. Etole says
Thank you, Rick.
Donna Z Falcone says
I knew if I waited long enough, something strange would materialize on my kitchen table. 🙂
http://www.donnazfalcone.com/poetry/brains-for-breakfast
Rick Maxson says
Whole brains are best too! Much healthier. 🙂
Donna says
Well, as long as you don’t cook ’em. 😉
Monica Sharman says
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/
L. L. Barkat says
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. 🙂 )
Joy Lenton says
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
lynn__ says
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?)
lynn__ says
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!
L. L. Barkat says
This was just such a fun poem. Surreal. Sometimes amusing. Sometimes almost creepy. Glad you shared 🙂