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Hanging by a Thread: Poetry Prompt

By Heather Eure 11 Comments

hanging by a thread promptThe phrase “hanging by a thread” usually denotes that a situation is perilously close to disaster, or may change in an instant. The saying is attributed to the tale of the Sword of Damocles. John F. Kennedy once used it in a speech before the UN on the threat of nuclear war: “Every man, woman and child lives under a nuclear sword of Damocles hanging by the slenderest of threads.”

To understand its original meaning, you must know the story. The parable begins with King Dionysius, the tyrant of Syracuse (now Sicily). He liked to surround himself with courtiers who continually flattered him. One of the professionals who lounged around during feasts and told the king everything he wanted to hear was Damocles.

During an opulent feast, Damocles mentioned how blissful life would be if he were king. Dionysius told Damocles if he wanted to see what it was like to be king, then he was welcome to come sit at his throne. Naturally Damocles accepted and the king ensured Damocles was lavished with the best food, drink, and finery during the feast. The servant reveled in the moment, thinking how a king’s life was nothing short of wonderful when he noticed that Dionysius had hung a sword pointing directly above Damocles head, suspended in the air by a single strand of horse hair.

In a great fright, Damocles begged the king to allow him to leave the throne and return to his subservient place as a courtier. The point the king made was clearly understood. What appears to be an enviable life of luxury, wealth, and power is, in fact, fraught with fear; dangerously teetering on the edge of death.

The ancient moral often lost to common usage is simple: A life of extravagance and power is not all it’s cracked up to be.

An unrelated, yet amusing tale of King Dionysius has to do with the poetry he wrote. From the collection, Bibliotheca Historica a story is told of how, during court, Dionysius would read his poems aloud to the rapturous applause and praise of his courtiers.

Unable to satisfy his need for praise, he also wanted to receive accolades from the arts community. Dionysius sent for the well-known poet and philosopher Philoxenus to listen to some of the king’s poems in court and give his opinion. After dinner, Philoxenus shared his thoughts and they were anything but flattering. Infuriated by the insults, Dionysius sent Philoxenus to a prison cut from rock, known as The Quarries.

Because of the tireless pleas by the literary circle to free Philoxenus, the king eventually decided to release the poet. But first, he had to dine with the king. After an elegant feast, King Dionysius read a few verses of poetry he had recently composed. While the courtiers lavished the king with compliments on his unparalleled talent, Philoxenus sat quiet. Certain the prison experience had broken the poet’s spirit, the king knew Philoxenus would be grateful for the mercy shown him, enough to give a proper response with a few words of praise.

Once the crowd settled down, the king asked how he liked the poem. The moment hanging by a thread, Philoxenus stood, turned to the guards and said, “Take me back to The Quarries.”

Try It: Sword of Damocles Poetry

Consider a story, a movie, a song, or poem when an era, or any representation of opulence and power, upon closer examination, proved itself more trouble than it was worth. Was there a wistful admiration of the luxury and power? What lesson was learned? Write a poem about it.

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Featured Poem

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. We enjoyed this heartfelt poem from Yvonne:

Tangle

For Mark

It’s a knotty problem,
this tangle we’ve made
of our lives.

Now you’re gone, I can’t grasp
the other end of the thread.
You have become

the puzzle of the labyrinth,
the lost string,
Icarus falling.

If I close my eyes, reach in
and pull you out,
will you look back?

I believed you were
indestructible.
I lied. Those sisters

poised over their embroidery
severed the links
all at once.

I am left holding
the Gordian knot:
your life and mine

inextricably tangled,
a macramé of twisted
fears and loves.

You are there in the darkness
with your sword,
waiting to cut me loose.

I won’t let you.

Not yet.

—by Yvonne Marjot

Photo by Flair Candy, Creative Commons via Flickr.

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  • Author
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Heather Eure
Heather Eure
Heather Eure has served as the Poetry Editor for the late Burnside Collective and Special Projects Editor for us at Tweetspeak Poetry. Her poems have appeared at Every Day Poems. Her wit has appeared just about everywhere she's ever showed up, and if you're lucky you were there to hear it.
Heather Eure
Latest posts by Heather Eure (see all)
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Filed Under: Blog, Knots and Threads, poetry prompt, poetry teaching resources, writer's group resources, writing prompt

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Comments

  1. Rick Maxson says

    February 27, 2017 at 9:07 am

    Heather, what a timely tale you associate with this week’s poetry prompt.

    Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      February 28, 2017 at 10:14 pm

      You are perceptive as always, Rick. 🙂

      Reply
  2. Rick Maxson says

    February 27, 2017 at 9:09 am

    Yvonne, I hope you continue to grace us with your poetry.

    Reply
  3. Maureen says

    February 27, 2017 at 10:30 am

    I agree with Rick, Yvonne. Yours is a lovely poem.

    Reply
    • Sandra Heska King says

      February 27, 2017 at 12:43 pm

      I third that, Yvonne.

      Reply
      • Heather Eure says

        February 28, 2017 at 10:15 pm

        Hear! Hear!

        Reply
  4. Rick Maxson says

    February 27, 2017 at 12:25 pm

    A Second Opinion

    Some scars are not closures,
    they want something
    to be made of them, a door,
    or a vine, like this scar
    on my ankle, climbing
    the remainder of my life, giving
    direction to desire.

    We all want this,
    a beanstalk to the clouds,
    the skin as a map—constant,
    easy to fold—
    the bend in the road
    obscuring the glare
    of what we were.

    Today the locusts started
    their saws singing
    and this evening
    one left its mask clinging
    to the furrows of a cottonwood.

    As children we wore their forsaken shells—
    hideous face, fishhook legs—
    a brittle pouch for hopelessness
    and misunderstood longings.

    For years my body has been the husk
    of something moving inside,
    balanced on a thread
    high above my life,
    while I strained to see
    of what the thread was made.

    I am the dancer’s motion,
    not the step-by-step:

    I am the sound of air
    in an ear turning;

    the press of space
    against my skin, torments me;

    I am the dream
    without a dreamer—

    an echo waiting.

    Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      March 1, 2017 at 12:03 am

      This is wonderful, Rick. The comparison of a cicada… striking. This verse is sticking with me:

      “For years my body has been the husk
      of something moving inside,
      balanced on a thread
      high above my life,
      while I strained to see
      of what the thread was made.”

      Reply
    • Katie says

      March 4, 2017 at 11:49 am

      These lines stopped me in my tracks:
      “- the bend in the road
      obscuring the glare
      of what we were.”

      Reply
  5. Donna Falcone says

    February 27, 2017 at 2:59 pm

    Yyvonne. I love your poem… so glad to see it featured here. 🙂

    Reply

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