Poetry Friday: To an Image of a Hippo, or Ponderous, or Both

September's challenge pounced out of nowhere (where did the rest of the month GO?) so maybe that's why I laughed when I read our task: 

"write a poem using ponderous, or an image of a hippo, in whatever form we wish!"

Ok, I had to think quickly, about ponderous things! What to do? How to frame this? Where even to start? 

Well, that's always the question, no matter how much or how little time I have...right? So I leaned on my never-fail poetry approach: research. It's not something we discuss much when teaching poetic technique, as we focus on rhythm, imagery, word choice, and perhaps form, or even rhyme. But poetry must also be rooted before it can grow, and for me, that means digging into the connections my subject makes with the world. This time, that was two-fold:  the word origin of ponderous (and other pond words)...and hippos, of course. 

Research always saves the day. 

Research

If a poet in a pond

were to ponder,

what ponderous

thoughts to weigh?

That “to pond” is to pool water; 

nothing to do with poundage,

still, arising from pound—

a place to hold livestock— so a water

version of that, to hold ducks, say.

Or carp. Or a poet floating

on her back to see what’s up

there, wondering who, in dialect, turned

pound into pond. So she can now write

about ponding, a hazard of low water 

at the dip of a path, or even make jokes

about pond scum, also called frog-spittle,

and joy! brook-silk….and yet, to ponder

is another thing, entirely: to think, to consider,

to weigh carefully. This she must do. 

Not simply float. Perhaps if she contemplates

the hippo. Now her thoughts bolt from her wet

coils of hair. To be a river-horse! To cry 

questions that carry through both water 

and air. To word-gallop as it can,

startling all, the terror of the mangroves, 

mating underwater, birthing crocodile

killers, not a ponderous bone

in its body of work. What then? 

What might pool in her ears? What might 

she say to her pod, her herd, her dale, 

her bloat? What if this pond weren’t 

all the world she knows? 

             ----Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved) 

See what my poetry sisters did with this ponderous challenge here:

Tanita

Liz

Kelly

Laura

Rebecca

Andi

Tricia

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Jone Rush MacCulloch. 

Poetry Friday: Full Circle

Today marks the end of my husband's service in the Air Force---thirty-nine years to the day he was commissioned.  And, by luck, we're back in the place where our married life began, thirty-six years ago, at Langley Air Force Base.  Today's poetry challenge was to re-visit an old poem, and this one from March 2009 seems most fitting.  

I do, and always will. 

Annus Mirabilis*

how close is

the edge where we gasp 

at the wondrous view

to the place where 

addicted to gravity

we fall, and fall, and fall

the attraction is mutual

the disasters are many,

the wonders placed as knots

on a rope. Hand over hand,

the shape of each day

fitting to our palms,

rough and knobby,

we pull our hearts,

tough as burnt sugar

out of the blackened scrape

we’ve gotten ourselves in;

each year a spin

around the sun, nothing

but a dust trail, an annulus,

a common ring, a promise

for years to come

and years past

and this year,

to make full circles

from disasters and wonders,

to hold each miracle 

as we fall.

                ----Sara Lewis Holmes  (all rights reserved) 

* Annus Mirabilis:  a year of disasters or miracles. In other words, any year in which love exists. 

My poetry sisters posts can be found here:

Laura

Tanita

Tricia

Liz

Rebecca

Andi

Kelly

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Heidi Mordhorst at My Juicy Little Universe. 

Poetry Friday: A Susurrus of Heated Talk

For June, we were challenged to write a poem using "susurrus" or to an image of thick woods. I started off writing about how "thick" June's heat is, but thankfully, veered into garden's bounty instead.  I think my mind is on my neighbor's tomatoes...and will be until she delivers one, a perfect rosy gift, to my door. At least, I hope she does. Please, please.

Small talk

In June, we hum in heated talk

of glossy egg-bright

squash and lime green

earbobs of beans, we barter

blackohmyberries, foretell 

first cobcrack of corn, whisper 

endlessly of that soandsomuch

who promises soonwillbe tomatoes,

murmur peachescomingnext,

and on and on, a susurrus

of morethanenough; a promise

to be together into the long days.

                     ---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)

My fellow poets are whispering and humming here:

Tanita
Liz
Laura

Tricia

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Karen's Got a Blog.