Question and Answer -- another chain

This chain works by answering the last question in the comments section and leaving one for the next person. I'll try and put them up into the main post as they come in. You may participate multiple times.

==================================
==================================

Where do poems come from?
Poems grow on the inspiration tree -- a plant that few are able to find even after years of searching -- all the flowers which grow on it are different colors.


Is there any reason you should not freeze a poem?
There is no reason I am aware of you should not freeze a poem.


Can we really eat our own words or is that just something people say?
Surely we can, and we must!
We may choose to dine on our own words... it is preferable, though, if said words are delectable and delightful on the palate.


If I write poetry for unrequited loves, am I a romantic fool or a brave warrior?
Sometimes bravery is the quiet voice that whispers I will try again tomorrow, and sometimes it's better to be a solitary soldier than a popular mediocre. So you are neither a fool or brave, only yourself, a poet who feels.


So poems actually make a difference?
If even a small light flickers, yes.


May I tell you everything?
Yes I want to hear your story...
and that flicker does matter...it comes form a pearl...
You are like a shell in a turbulent stormy ocean who's eaten up a grain of sand and now is musing over her pain... and everyone comes to watch you with aahing and oohing...
"She's got a pearl!"
That's what they say...
And this is what makes all the difference... you go on producing pearls to be seen ... shells with no pearls are eaten up!


Can you tell me what they are converted to when they are eaten up?
When they are eaten up they go back into the poetry machine -- sort of like a Play-doh press -- so poets may make more shells, and one day maybe more pearls.


Do poets stay up late at night and furiously smoke cigarettes while balling up sheet after sheet of frustrated paper and tossing them idly over their shoulders?
Poets do what they need to do. Toss them, turn them, throw the words against the wall. Eat and mull over phrases. Swallow and taste their remains.


Which words do we thirst for most?
We thirst for those words that bring us truth, even if it be a bitter tasting truth.


Why is intolerance an affliction of a lazy mind?
It has something to do with all the sawdust and cat fur clogging the vacuum hose.


Are you going to turn the page?
Yes, I am going to turn the page, but not until the page decides to turn me and my misconceptions.


What misconceptions?
This misconception that poetry is written just by words...


Anyway, do we write poetry or poetry writes us?
yes.


Do you know the difference?
No I do not know the difference.


Do you?
Yes I do...there's no difference since the coin has got just one side.

Head or tails?
I have always preferred heads over tails. Heads are where hearts are protected, and allowed to reach out beyond the (rib)cage...

Is there such a thing as a good cage?

Echo

A voice leaps from a still spring
it's a duck's voice that leaps out from the still spring,

the voice of a lone albatross,
Still, the voice springs though no one can hear

no one can hear the voice from the still spring
that befalls the abyss of an indifferent world

A spent, drained world ripe for a turn
Spent, almost dead, or maybe a slight flicker?

One flicker. One breath.
I see.

See beauty in the abyss of a lone albatross, the leaping voice, the spring now still

seeping beauty, showering grace, shedding light -- its solitary insight

A beautiful voice, alone not lonely
An abyss as deep and still as the stream serves to shatter the silence with resonant glee

The voice leaping from the spring is the echo of the only sound there is...
Ommmmmmmm...








This is another chain poem. If you'd like to participate please check the comments section and add a line at the end of the chain. It is easier for the next person to know where they are if you re-write all the lines which precede yours.

RULES:

1. This chain is called ECHO and in order to get that effect I require that you repeat one word (or make a rhyme with one word) from the line before yours.

2. Please use plosives. Plosives are hard "P" or "B" sounds. A good way to conceptualize this is to pretend you are speaking into a microphone. Often p's or b's POP into a mic. Sometimes plosives are useful (say if you wanted to write a poem about a pipebomb you could use a lot of them so the poem sounds like an explosion). In the same way D.H. Lawrence used a lot of "S" sounds in his poem, Snake, to make the words slither and hiss down the page. This is an example of the sonic quality of the words we choose. In this chain hopefully the effect will be that the lines bounce from one another like a beach rock thrown down a ravine.

3. You may add more than one line if you wish.

The first line:

A voice leaps from a still spring

Chain Poem

We walk a seven day mile

that meanders without our consent.

We go where time goes when it's gone,

boulders on our shoulders,

breeze in our shoes.

We choose the touchstones that we carry

but not how far.

Listen to the Crow --

look to the future.

All ways are circles.

All goings are returns.

We walk a seven day mile.

-----------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------

This came together beautifully... thank you all for participating and for your thoughtfulness... Human Being, the only reason I made any rules was so that you could break them... I live by the same rule as you that at least one has to be broken... Debra, beautiful line... the travelers meander as does the time... what do you think... I added a line after Honor's line to qualify it and help the flow into the next line... I love that there's slant rhyme on "shoes" and "choose"... pure gold... Andrea... thank you for being so accommodating regards moving your line... this was a great example of teamwork... and BBC even though he didn't want to play brought a real nice spark into the mix... I'll ask him if he minds us using his line but I'm sure he won't because he doesn't believe in ownership of thoughts and words... thanks buddy... if you all like we could try another one of these again soon... let me know what you think... again... thank you all...

We walk a seven day mile...

RULES:

no plosives...

no more than ten syllables...

this process isn't instant...

take your time...

we walk a seven day mile...

Wanderlust

If I must I shall persist
in wanderlust, in loneliness...


...like your reflection
seeming in a crowd,
twisting your hair,
turning to be the
face, the voice,
someone else. There
was a sun shower double
rainbow after a train
into the west,
into the waning hour
until bedtime
when you left --
looked up,
saw Venus,
saw that all my loves
had been together
in one day --
you melted my heart.

Sentential Logic

Between the roses and the thorns
truth slumbers fitfully

as the sons of sorrow
are the poets and the prophets.

After Kahil Gibran

A wing of my heart beats broken,

not even a breath falls on your ghosts

when I pause to let them walk by.

When I see your face on a busy street

I tell myself it's just broken wings
and this stranger is cheered

by seeing another stranger
in a strange land.

Bergen-Belsen

We were fishermen
from a quiet place.
Poor, but strong --
we'd seen holds
bursting with the catch,
snow-shoe hare
snared, wrenching,
begging for a cracked neck.
We'd seen remnants of caribou,
paunched, quartered, putrid.
We'd seen Normandy,
been butchered and exploded,
smelled detritus in our nostrils,
heads leaning to the hail
raining down
like lightening zippers.
We crossed country
wearing half-khaki grime.
We saw bombed out cities
painted Kilroy.
We died and we cried.
We killed and we died.
That our journey should end
with so grisly a sight
writhing before our eyes
like cod below deck,
how can we go to sea again?
We were fishermen.

Lake Portage

Me and Jed had carried the canoe for a couple miles when we finally came to Lake Portage. It was disappointing to see it was all dried up -- only beach rocks left over like once was an ocean rolling where we stood. The gulls flew overhead and there were crushed shells beneath our feet.

"I know," said Jed, "I never really figured we'd catch any fish either. But the hike was worth it all the same."

I thought it was a fairly fine line that Jed had cast, as I didn't think he had a click to begin with. And there's ten thousand clicks in a clue.

I ask myself questions and try not to answer by reason. I keep looking in my sketch book for hints or the words of writers. Kerouac said, accept loss forever. Sounds simple, doesn't it? But that's just more reason -- who can accept loss never had anything worth losing to start -- and it's certainly not me. Perhaps someday that may change and I'll let go; the fuel in the fireplace will finally meet its match.

My heart says that day is not today and that some things I still can't accept.