satyapriya

Rhyme scheme: a, b, c, d, e, f, g, f.

Rhyme... ugh. Well, okay.

Making Magic Anywhere

Herbs to strengthen, boost, clear:
into the tea egg, into the cup.
Colour comes to the boiling water.
I stir counter-clockwise
to follow the sun's path.
Later, herbs into the garden bed
with the wish to bless and nourish.
My vegetables blessed, and well fed.


Thanks to any Real Toads reading. I'm sorry DreamWidth makes it so darned difficult to comment if you're not a member. I am reading your poems, inbetween madly proof reading my new book, and preparing for its launch.
4 stanzas? No hope. I'm thankful I got this skerrick.

Madly catching up on prompts from the Real Toads mob. Day 6: Today, let’s travel back in time, to feudal times in China, which began with the Xia dynasty in 2070 B.C., ending with the Revolution of 1911. In those times, girls and women, whose feet were usually bound, were oppressed, often living circumscribed lives of isolation.
In the Hunan province, peasant women developed a secret language of female writing, called nu shu. A young girl was matched with a lifelong best friend, or soul sister, called her laotang, with whom she communicated by letter.
Sometimes these messages were inscribed on fans, which were passed back and forth. It was not until the 1960’s that this secret language of women drew the interest of the authorities and scholars.
The story of one of these captivating relationships is told in the book by Lisa See, and the film Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.
Our exercise is to write a poem in the voice of another: in this case, the voice of a woman living in feudal times, addressing her laotang,
Or,
Write from the point of view of any living creature. The canvas is wide. Amaze me!

Sister, across the valley,
sister across the river,
sisters all spread through the land,
I write this in secret,
so that when the townsmen come for me
they won't think to burn the wooden stakes
that hold up my runner beans.
I will be gone to the stake,
to the wooden door laden with stones,
the ducking stool and the ice-riddled pond.
They know of me,
but none of you.
They will burn my broom,
but it has new straw.
Find the old in with the goat;
you will know it by touch.
It will sing to your fingers.
My shadow book is scratched
onto stones beneath the oak.
My cat is in the forest,
but comes to the sound of spoon on dish.
Find them, sisters,
find them, keep them.
Keep yourselves safe.
Burn these stakes to be sure.
Stay silent, as I will be
after today.


Many thanks to those reading, even if DreamWidth makes it difficult to comment. Be assured that I'm reading your poetry, inbetween madly proof reading my new book, and preparing not only for the launch, but travel shortly afterwards. Thankyou, Toads.

First

Hard to say where;
choose your own beginning,
calendar, moon phase, zodiac,
or when day and night are contracted cold and even,
and plan your year from there.

My year kicks off in football season,
Aussie Rules in July,
a blue and white striped scarf.
On my altar, the black and white
of time in balance.

From now on,
longer days, the sun closing in,
ground softening ready for seed.
A cold winter of reading,
my own mind-field seasoned
and ready for the coming water-flow
Spring of words,
as the black candle burns to a nub,
and I add a fresh white taper to the holder.