Tuesday, November 18, 2014

identity

photo by sergio martinez


who are you?

perhaps this is a question that you have a firm answer to. for many, it is a lifelong quest, determining who they are, understanding who they are.

perhaps who you are is defined by your particular beliefs. perhaps it has been defined for you by others --- what they say about you and what you believe about what they have said. maybe your parents defined who you are. perhaps your past has determined who you became.

maybe you know more about who you are not, than who you are.

our poems help our readers determine who we are, whether they are written to address our identity or the world around us. we can learn a lot about others by how they interact with the world, the priorities they choose, the things they say...

so...

who are you?

this week i want you to write a poem that specifically addresses your identity --- who you believe yourself to be  -or- a poem that specifically identifies who you are not...


Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Dream

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Dreams appear as a fake reality in certain stages of sleep. We do not have any control over this happening that may range from common and ordinary to surreal and bizarre. The world of dream has no boundary. Time has no meaning and space can be distorted.



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From ancient to the modern every culture had their own interpretations of dreams. While the minds of the antique past believed dream to be the soul’s journey leaving the body; oracles, omen, prophecies or even the best way to receive divine revelation modern psychoanalysts explain dreams as manifestations of our deepest desires and anxieties.

Dreams sometimes leave their impact on creative minds.


By Salvador Dali
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·Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening (1944) is a surrealist painting by Salvador Dali showing Freud’s influence on surrealist art.



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·        ·The poem Kubla Khan by Samuel Tailor Coleridge was composed one night after he had experienced an opium influenced dream
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·        Mary Shelley’s dream about an eccentric scientist paved the way for the novel Frankenstein.


Many are of the opinion that our waking state is a dream too. One day it will break.
13th century Persian poet and Sufi mystic Jalaluddin Rumi says:



                         Bad Dream

              One day you will look back and laugh at yourself.
              You’ll say, ‘ I can’t believe I was so asleep!
              How did I ever forget the truth?
              How ridiculous to believe that sadness and sickness
              Are anything other than bad dreams.’    

This week our exploration is in the dream world.
Write a new poem connected with dream.
Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community.


Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Pebbles

Pebbles


This week i want us all to write about Pebbles.

Just wander to any beach a take a look at thousands of different shaped, different coloured, different textured pebbles and every one  is unique.

Each individual pebble with its fellow pebbles becomes an ocean of stone.



So what come to you mind when you think about the humble pebble

Do you consider its beauty, its uniqueness?

Does it make you think of childhood, of holidays spent on the beach?

Does it make you feel uncomfortable as you can feel the pain on bare feet?

Do you consider the way the pebble has been formed, the smoothness of the caressing of the sea?

Or do you associate it with memories, or graves.

Let your mind wander and write down whatever inspires you.

And just to help you here’s a little progressive rock as Emerson. Lake & Palmer  play “Just Take A Pebble”



Just take a pebble and cast it to the sea,
Then watch the ripples that unfold into me
My face spills so gently into your eyes
Disturbing the waters of our lives

Shreds of our memories are lying on your grass
Wounded words of laughter are graveyards of the past
Photographs are grey and torn, scattered in your fields
Letters of your memories are not real

Wear sadness on your shoulders like a worn-out overcoat
In pockets creased and tattered hang the rags of your hopes
The daybreak is your midnight, the colours have all died
Disturbing the waters of our lives,
Of our lives, of our lives, lives, lives, lives
Of our lives