Poetry competition CLOSED 28th January 2019 3:57pm
WINNER
ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
RUNNERS-UP:
eswaller
and PoetsRevenge
Bone - Celebration of Mary Oliver
Song of the Builders ( After Mary Oliver )
We are humankind, all of us
living various levels of experience—
growing consciousness as bones.
Some are fractured, broken
scarred by choice or accident—
others, solidly intact.
We do not master response
as much as approach — although
it is not the latter that generates war
but the former alone.
If I say, Strike my cheek
do it, that I may judge
how much I have built
upon the foundation of Love
by turning the other too—
or, how far I still need to go.
~
#MaryOliver
living various levels of experience—
growing consciousness as bones.
Some are fractured, broken
scarred by choice or accident—
others, solidly intact.
We do not master response
as much as approach — although
it is not the latter that generates war
but the former alone.
If I say, Strike my cheek
do it, that I may judge
how much I have built
upon the foundation of Love
by turning the other too—
or, how far I still need to go.
~
#MaryOliver
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
SWEET ANNIHILATION
There was a moment at the end of youth,
I sat upon a rock and watched the breeze.
As seeds and tufts and other fancies flew,
I read the writing of the earth preserved
In granite by a withered dry creekbed
And felt in me the want to take up ink.
As termites scarified a heart in wood,
The richness of wild minutiae took hold
And laughter bellowed out my slack-jaw mouth.
My life doubled in years but no more known,
I came again to sacred stone and trees
A little way from where I had grown up,
A little way from love that I had lost,
Sat still and watched the daytime moon pass near.
I bushwhacked through my ego to a lake
And with a snake and catfish swam carefree.
That nature must destroy me now and then
Is a lesson aging nicely, I think.
~
#MaryOliver
I sat upon a rock and watched the breeze.
As seeds and tufts and other fancies flew,
I read the writing of the earth preserved
In granite by a withered dry creekbed
And felt in me the want to take up ink.
As termites scarified a heart in wood,
The richness of wild minutiae took hold
And laughter bellowed out my slack-jaw mouth.
My life doubled in years but no more known,
I came again to sacred stone and trees
A little way from where I had grown up,
A little way from love that I had lost,
Sat still and watched the daytime moon pass near.
I bushwhacked through my ego to a lake
And with a snake and catfish swam carefree.
That nature must destroy me now and then
Is a lesson aging nicely, I think.
~
#MaryOliver
Written by SatInUGal
(Kumar)
Go To Page
The Swan (Oliver: Bone)
For my small, incredible Great-Nanny, who loved Swans, who has been gone for seven years too long.
Inspired by Mary Oliver's poem by the same name.
Inwardly descending, shifting across the creek
she comes
with the grace of a purest babe
and careful, as mother carrying it
'her ship, filled
with white flowers–'
dancing upon the early-grey
of ghosts, in their holy chariots.
I miss my Grandmother's company–
sketching waves
within perfectly penned lines and
of course! Songs a-sung -
hymns of angels never-heard.
Secrets shift beneath a surface,
too fine and infinitely thin
to perceive.
Hollowed out on gutted instruments of man they are played,
left safer untouched - lingering ear to ear, eye to eye,
with almost words,
almost touches.
Hover back, dear fullest ship,
with cargo of earnest pleasures,
carry your goodness between this life and next
safekeeping histories of the goddess 'neath your wing.
#Mary Oliver
Bone
Written by ImperfectedStone
(The Gardener)
Go To Page
Omnipotent Journey
Is it age that has me turn aside,
to think twice because the
turmoil in my life is nothing new.
This time around it’s
different news or seems to be,
though bitter onslaught’ chill
and words are all the same.
Before I’m overwhelmed
this time, I know what I must do,
and I won’t be alone.
From those who try to hold me back
with lists they need for me to fill.
From shouts that try to blame their
wants and woes so hard it seems
the earth will free-fall from its spin
— I soon walk out the door.
There’s nothing to prepare my rout.
I’ve all I need for this.
With coat and gloves and shoes
and hat, I’m down the stairs.
Already I’ve a smile that isn’t seen
but felt within my lightened heart
as deeper in the woods I go,
where neither voices’ drone
nor storm can reach.
It’s all I want to know.
Each rapid step I take for minutes
passing till I’ve lost the count,
and now don’t even bother.
It must be like the crane that
takes to wing and lets its instinct
be compass and navigator,
leaving me as only motion.
What is my instinct?
I stop to look up through the trees
With tiny rippling stars in sight.
The world’s at rest.
The cold and crisp of winter’s air
surrounds me and the sentinels.
I’ve long forgotten where I laid
the broadsword I never used.
I didn’t need it then
nor do I need it now.
Though deep in darkest night,
the words that I am hearing
come to me more clearly
are of myself.
I feel I’m reacquainting
with a friend.
I’ll stay here for a while to think,
while curious brave the cold,
peering from foliage and drifts.
I hardly know how
or why I’ll be all right.
As winter makes amends,
I promise Him I’m doing this
for only me, I won’t forget again.
to think twice because the
turmoil in my life is nothing new.
This time around it’s
different news or seems to be,
though bitter onslaught’ chill
and words are all the same.
Before I’m overwhelmed
this time, I know what I must do,
and I won’t be alone.
From those who try to hold me back
with lists they need for me to fill.
From shouts that try to blame their
wants and woes so hard it seems
the earth will free-fall from its spin
— I soon walk out the door.
There’s nothing to prepare my rout.
I’ve all I need for this.
With coat and gloves and shoes
and hat, I’m down the stairs.
Already I’ve a smile that isn’t seen
but felt within my lightened heart
as deeper in the woods I go,
where neither voices’ drone
nor storm can reach.
It’s all I want to know.
Each rapid step I take for minutes
passing till I’ve lost the count,
and now don’t even bother.
It must be like the crane that
takes to wing and lets its instinct
be compass and navigator,
leaving me as only motion.
What is my instinct?
I stop to look up through the trees
With tiny rippling stars in sight.
The world’s at rest.
The cold and crisp of winter’s air
surrounds me and the sentinels.
I’ve long forgotten where I laid
the broadsword I never used.
I didn’t need it then
nor do I need it now.
Though deep in darkest night,
the words that I am hearing
come to me more clearly
are of myself.
I feel I’m reacquainting
with a friend.
I’ll stay here for a while to think,
while curious brave the cold,
peering from foliage and drifts.
I hardly know how
or why I’ll be all right.
As winter makes amends,
I promise Him I’m doing this
for only me, I won’t forget again.
Written by Heaven_sent_Kathy
Go To Page
The Journey ( Resumed – After Mary Oliver )
It never began but resumed
on some lackadaisical day
when you least expected joy
amid the everyday mundane—
or, maybe it was an extraordinary
moment orchestrated by love
activating clarity of intuition
subcutaneously dormant within you;
a minute idea-like mammal
etching its way blindly
through hallowed cavities
of your solar plexus—
its sacrosanct cave reflecting
a déjŕ vu of something
vaguely remembered
and familiar; an ingrained
pattern of repetition. . .
Millenniums of theory
hammered upon an iron anvil
of imagination and speculation
into understanding
exactly, exactly why everything,
especially you
exist to overcome
such undesired contrast
necessary to water your growth;
not to provide an advantage—
but, to accept its universal flow;
allowing no inclement onslaught
of circumstance or excuse
to hold you back anymore.
~
on some lackadaisical day
when you least expected joy
amid the everyday mundane—
or, maybe it was an extraordinary
moment orchestrated by love
activating clarity of intuition
subcutaneously dormant within you;
a minute idea-like mammal
etching its way blindly
through hallowed cavities
of your solar plexus—
its sacrosanct cave reflecting
a déjŕ vu of something
vaguely remembered
and familiar; an ingrained
pattern of repetition. . .
Millenniums of theory
hammered upon an iron anvil
of imagination and speculation
into understanding
exactly, exactly why everything,
especially you
exist to overcome
such undesired contrast
necessary to water your growth;
not to provide an advantage—
but, to accept its universal flow;
allowing no inclement onslaught
of circumstance or excuse
to hold you back anymore.
~
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
Essence
it likes to imagine
appendages
to yawn and stretch
quiet testing,
then owns the sunrise
to meld with and warm
from its answer
alone, it yearns
then comes into
our sphere,
idillic form to be free in
( shapeless, eternal
Is nothing new
in a universe )
it fancies form with its
rudiments and
shortcomings
providing curves
it wants a connection,
a dialect
radiating from
its own star, felt
imagination of day
blending into
destinations of night,
streaming
wavering, boundless,
liking to be its own
‘playful’ in a body
aglow
if I were it,
I would melt,
dissolve my issues
and resolve
and, like spirit,
but as my essence,
evolve and wistful
float away
Yes, I could.
I have what it likes,
it feels everything
I’d ever need to
Written by Jade-Pandora
(jade tiger)
Go To Page
( non-entry )
Hi, Jade. Thank you for assisting us with creating a theme for Mary Oliver. We appreciate your participation. #📝
As conveyed via message last week, and for public clarification because the guidelines state only one entry per DUP persona, you may enter an additional poem; however, at that time you must let us know which you would like judged.
We've already spent judging time on your previous entry. Is this now your entry? Or just a submission to populate the theme?
Thank you.
As conveyed via message last week, and for public clarification because the guidelines state only one entry per DUP persona, you may enter an additional poem; however, at that time you must let us know which you would like judged.
We've already spent judging time on your previous entry. Is this now your entry? Or just a submission to populate the theme?
Thank you.
I attempted a pm so as to keep the comp thread clear but the system “ate” it, so I went to bed. Now I’m logged back on site and was in my notes to let you know but you beat me to it. Not my intention to make you go through the trouble.
Please continue with my initial entry “Sleeping In The Forest”. “Essence” will help add to the count for our Mary’s hashtag.
Thank you, Sage.
Jade
Please continue with my initial entry “Sleeping In The Forest”. “Essence” will help add to the count for our Mary’s hashtag.
Thank you, Sage.
Jade
Thank you, Jade. Requesting clarification wasn't any trouble.
Just for future reference to all entrants; it would help us greatly if you would mark any subsequent entries "non-entry", as Johnny and I do on ours.
Thank you and carry on.
Just for future reference to all entrants; it would help us greatly if you would mark any subsequent entries "non-entry", as Johnny and I do on ours.
Thank you and carry on.
Welcome home, Mary Oliver. ⭐ September 10, 1935 - January 17, 2019 ⭐
Thank you for your wisdom and poetic legacy. You will be dearly missed. 📝❤
https://www.ajc.com/news/pulitzer-prize-winning-poet-mary-oliver-dies/PFH0b6UuskL0C931CoAwhP/amp.html
When Death Comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins
from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;
when death comes, like an iceberg between
shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door of curiosity,
wondering;
what is it going to be like, that cottage
of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music
in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world
into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing
and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited
this world.
Mary Oliver, August 30, 1992
Anonymous
😕📝❤
I’m grateful, and it seems appropriate, that this, this competition in tribute of Mary, is what we were doing when she passed. And now, it’s filled with even more meaning.
Thank you for letting us speak at this very special time, outside of posting entries...
and thank you, Sage, most deeply & sincerely.
Thank you for letting us speak at this very special time, outside of posting entries...
and thank you, Sage, most deeply & sincerely.
When Death Comes ( After Mary Oliver )
When death comes,
let them say I mastered
the anatomy of words,
that my life was poetry.
Let them say I humbled
that bulwark of ego—
that bane of pride,
leaving a quiet legacy.
Not with the flying colors
of a Rainbow lorikeet
capturing its beholder's eye;
but, a female cardinal—
her lackluster appearance
ensuring the nest survives.
Let them, despite my human
mistakes and many faults,
say I at least loved poetry—
that my Spirit became a poem, a bird,
a cardinal nesting in a cup of words.
~
let them say I mastered
the anatomy of words,
that my life was poetry.
Let them say I humbled
that bulwark of ego—
that bane of pride,
leaving a quiet legacy.
Not with the flying colors
of a Rainbow lorikeet
capturing its beholder's eye;
but, a female cardinal—
her lackluster appearance
ensuring the nest survives.
Let them, despite my human
mistakes and many faults,
say I at least loved poetry—
that my Spirit became a poem, a bird,
a cardinal nesting in a cup of words.
~
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
