“Who Knows?”
What would you draw on the wall of your cave as cave dwelling humans did thousands of years ago? You think, “Who knows?” Cave dwellers expressed themselves in drawings. You express your voice in poetry; it is equal to voice in song.
Do ocean waves whisper or thunder in your ear? As you listen, would you call what you hear . . . a voice? Does the voice urge you to express in poetry what you hear? You know how you will express in poetry what you hear.
The ability to write poetry is a gift. Still, you need to work to get anything done. A poem has a skin—its sound; and a skeleton, made of nouns and muscles, which are verbs.
The voice you hear may occur in any situation—when you study art, landscapes, written word, human relationships—it is emotion. Below is a copy of a poem of inspiration:
“Pandora (The Weathercock)”
By Ann Stafford
Never, never again the house new or youth precise
Or the fresh loaves of hay in the field.
And the tree bark shimmers black and white
Only after rain.
The day rose clear-faced and quick
Breathing lemon and sage, undoubtedly crystal,
Fog was for coolness, not to get lost in, and the
wicked
Rode to ominous music.
The box had been left, but I never suddenly
opened the lid..
The day hung so full, time being happy and short,
No reason to fret over a dusty chest in a corner,
And I had given my word.
But nothing is changeless. While it was there in
the house
Something crept out, buzzing and small.
I heard it at night, an insect whine in the air
Unseen in the light.
And the mornings were sad sometimes
And rising slow, and the day crumpled and worn
Like a picture handled too much,
And I indifferent.
Came haze outlasting the dawn
Between me and the fields, the horizon too close;
And the bright days were full of objects
Not noticed before.
Love broke to a trinity, there were too many paths;
None seemed to be true, and in the oat fields the
horsemen
Wore various guises, and which could I trust
On their spotted geldings?
I have heard of such tings, but not for myself,
And the silver sifts from the box
On my hair and my tears, and the owner is gone,
and I—
I shall never be rid of it.
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Following is one of Estelle’s poems, suggested as an inspiration:
“The Very Drama of Events . . .
Prints Them on Our Memory”
It seemed the world would come apart
above Alberta Falls. Thunder warned,
or followed lightning when it split the sky.
My eyes peered from hooded poncho
for safe direction. Rain tingled on my face.
Slightly frightened, yet understood earth’s tricky nature
would decide my fate: if I should pass.
When storm ceased,
trail’s dull brown rocks, new burnished,
were auburn steps in cinnamon path. Charcoal shaft
of Hallett’s Peak shone silvery through mistylight.
Sapphires rested on pine needles.
Wet, dark leaves, bent grass, revealed animal path,
unseen in sun, when I hiked past. Rain sheen make
shattered cedar chips brilliant orange.
Three soft curves of mountain tops: smoke blue
and emerald, seemed to float in opal sky.Both my soul and dry earth felt rainfall comfort.
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After discussing both poems above, Estelle gave the group of writers an opportunity to express their voice in a poem.