She’s done a magnificient job of compiling and sorting the list, with a thoughtful introduction to each. Yay Trebuchet!!
Here’s the 6th Poetry Carnival in full swing at her place now.
Monthly Archives: November 2005
Grenadilla Tone
Garnet’s poem for the 7th Poetry Carnival. I chose to focus on the sound I make on the clarinet, which is a building block of the music I make.
Blurted air flaps my reed
to rasp a sneeze across its paper
thin tip, a flag snapping in the wind.
Raw chunks of sound, churned butter
grows mellow with aged consistency,
evolving with me, my lips’ brother.
Together we strive to parse
and rhyme the flurry of shuffling cards
into the deep seated whine
of blurry turbine engine speed.
My gut blasts a gale of excellent force
urging thin veins of cane to squeak.
Balanced scales permit leaning back
like ice dancers who spin ’round
flying out while spiraling in place.
Gymnastic grace settles into my form
as I waltz with my reedy friend
through the halls of my horn.
Raw silk waves are then spun
down rare, black wood
into long, chewy strands of polished
taffy. Syrupy tone stretches along
the quiet inner ears of my listeners,
and sooths their drums with chocolate songs.
notes: Clarinet, bassoon and oboe reeds are made of cane from Arundo Donax, a bamboo like grass which grows naturally along the Mediterranean coast. But it is also an invasive plant in California and the Southwest US.
Clarinets are made from the wood of theGrenadilla, or African Blackwood tree. It is favored for its density, which produces a rich, deep sound. Unfortunately it is also extremely slow growing and has now become endangered.
Wind players often refer to their instruments as “horns”.
Technorati tags- reed, musical tone, poetry carnival, music poetry, poems, tone
Poetry Carnival 7
The 7th poetry carnival will take place in my corner of the woods here, at the top of the hill at Glitter Lane.
Since I’m a musician, I thought we could explore the idea of music poetry. That can be interpreted any way you want. It could mean poetry about music, how music affect you, or with a musical or rhythmic tone. I hope you have fun with it. Here is my poem on clarinet tone..
OK- Major after thought stream of ideas coming up: Another option is to write a lyrical (musical) rhyming poem about Thanksgiving. Let’s get corny! Pour on the gravy. Baste the turkey with songful love. Lay on the mushy mashed potatoes. I’ll probably write one for Turkey Day
Submissions are due by Tuesday, November 29th.
Submissions should follow this format and be sent to my email address, garnet at glitteringstew dot com.
Title of Blog:
URI of Blog:
Title of Poem (or just the first line or a number):
Permalink URI of the Poem:
Number of Lines:
Key Line or lines (1-4) to excerpt:
This spark was started by Dan at Philosophical Poetry. You can also learn more about the past contests at the Google Poetry Carnival Group. It’s easy to join the group.
Sparks
Sparks are the beginning of fires, which warm, protect and guide, or maybe just give us something nice and spacey, a flickering flame upon which to levitate dreams.
Writing this, I guide myself. Reading it, you guide me, and perhaps yourself. We rely on each other. We move en masse, hobbling together through thickets, carrying what light we can find to see. Voices emerge, then recede.
Sparks of emotion can change your path. Sparks of ideas can light the universe. Sparks of distant stars give us dreams.
Listen, watch, trust, repeat. Sparks happen when you least expect.
Sparks can travel the speed of light through these wires, zapping you and moving on. What are sparks to you? Pass this spark on. Light a fire.
And please remember who was your flint. This flint sparked at Liz’s
Echoes 1
Here’s an echo of my past. In the cavernous halls of the blogosphere, it takes time for an echo to come back again…I posted this April 24. How time flies.
An inch of an odyssey takes infinite time
Forever toward it
Forever undone, forever undone, ever undone, undone.
Assuming an end is presuming a beginning.
Look where you’ve been. Look! Can you see?
Now you are wondering “Where on earth am I going?â€
Preparing for death frees the wind
to sigh, breathing a soft, new breeze
blowing a tender new bud, unique seedlingOur days and our nights
Swallow each other whole-
Lune lusts for shadow chased Helios.
There is no up, there is no down,
Nor back to the belly, nor the crown.
Only forward we lean to fall, grind, roll,
Heave atop the vanishing moment
Hop the lilting merrygoround.Maps crumble into soot
pinched thin by greasy fingers
peddling false, painted mirrors.
Furrowed, worn paths fell us safely
To known, well trodden soil, dense, smooth, glossed
Away from the path to the effervescent fields
The path through the marshes, ripe, rank and raw
Away from the path beyond to gardenia festooned hills
There is no end, no beginning
Day and night flashes-
Tingling fragrant sparks
In our hearts.
Technorati tags- poem, being present, literature, philosophy, time, spirit, awareness, philosophical poetry, abstract poetry