poetree | I've Got Puns In My Picnic Basket

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poetree

Sunday, every Sunday, let's have a community picnic. It's probably been a long week, and it's lovely to have a few minutes to sit back and relax and enjoy some good conversation in a less formal space. Feel free to bring something for the Picnic Basket - a poem you liked this week, a thought you had or something you experienced, or even something completely unrelated to poetry whatsoever that you just feel like sharing. Just take a moment to say hello, and maybe have a bite to eat; no one is going anywhere fast, and the shade promises some relief from the everyday heat. Let’s get to know each other a bit better, here under the branches of the poet’s tree.

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From:

bookblather

Month-long Iron Poet challenge. Basically, give me three words and an optional poetry style and get a poem.

From:

jjhunter

As in something like, "spice, strong, eccentricity; sestina"?

*offers it to you, oh iron poet*

From:

bookblather

Pbbt, I say unto ye. Pbbt.

Your sestina will be ready by the end of the week. :D

From:

jjhunter

\o/

I've written another one myself, albeit on a fannish theme: Bat Sestina.

...I don't know why I do this to myself - sestinas are hard. *has so much respect for you*

From:

bookblather

They ARE I know. And omg that Bat Sestina makes my heart smile.

I have two lines written in your sestina. I WILL WRITE MORE.

From:

jjhunter

Glad you like it! At first I got absolutely no comments on it, which made me a little twitchy with nerves ("Is it horrible? Oh noes, nobody likes it!" etc.). I very much look forward to your sestina whenever you happen to finish it.

From:

bookblather

Many days later, your sestina!

Spice

The spices taste so strong upon the air
Cinnamon and clove so rich and sweet
On summer's wind, the seller sings his song
Of spices rich and strange to scent your life
Drown out the sorrow, waft away the dark
And lose yourself in sweetness, sharp and spice.

It calls you out into the streets, the spice
It drifts, an invitation on the air
It blows on quiet breezes through the dark
It brings into the sour'st life some sweet
It summons you to wake into your life
It whispers in its own sweet-scented song.

I'd give so much to hear its siren song
To savor in my nose the scent of spice
For mud and woe and stress bedevil life
And all I hear is weeping in the air
There's not a thing to make my mouth taste sweet
And not a spark to mitigate the dark.

On wretched days when all I see is dark
I raise my thoughts in silent inner song
And summon up the memories of sweet
and sharp upon my tongue; the taste of spice
That, pinched between the fingers, tossed in air,
Awakens thoughts of new and brighter life.

A life unhindered, or a dazzled life
A life discovered hiding in the dark
A life spent soaring high upon the air
A life with voices raised in constant song
Perhaps a life devoted to the spice
Of danger leavened with a friendship sweet.

They call me mad, to dream of things so sweet
That drive me hither, from a broken life
Eccentric, if they're kind, or taste the spice
That lingers on my tongue in secret dark
But some of them have heard the siren song
And take their steps, eyes shut, on open air.

There's hidden sweetness deep within the dark;
There's secret life encoded in the song;
There's taste of spices drifting on the air.