Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center Challenge
Prompt #29 (for January 12th, 2020)
Because I couldn’t imagine myself compiling a set of NYPC prompts without including a Mary Oliver poem as “combustion” for a poem of your own, I offer one of my favorites. Respond to it/ borrow (i. e., steal wisely) from it in any way you like:
West Wind #2
You are young. So you know everything. You leap
into the boat and begin rowing. But, listen to me.
Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without
any doubt, I talk directly to your soul. Listen to me.
Lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and
your heart, and heart's little intelligence, and listen to
me. There is life without love. It is not worth a bent
penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of a
dead dog nine days unburied. When you hear, a mile
away and still out of sight, the churn of the water
as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the
sharp rocks -- when you hear that unmistakable
pounding -- when you feel the mist on your mouth
and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls
plunging and steaming -- then row, row for your life
toward it.
Mary Oliver
DYLAN O TONN (an imitation poem)
a cut-up found poem based on Mary Oliver's West Wind #2
Listen, you were too young to know everything.
You fell from the open arms of the boat and begin to swim.
Without fins, without gills, without guile, and the waves
spoke directly to your soul as if you were born to it. Listen
to tide whispering. Lift your slender arms from the water,
orchestrate the oars, let your mind dwell, your heart is an anchor.
Listen to the wind. There is light within the darkness.
Remember to stop for that old coin in the road. It is a song of the past
when trinkets floated like baubles in the tidepools of memory.
When you hear the churn of the sea as it frets and gnaws
the carapaces of jagged rocks—you'll feel that unmistakable
pounding of the waves in the cave—& the pull of home,
you'll witness the endless battle between land and sea,
your soul and the darkness that lies ahead, and the rivulets
plunging and swirling—don't let their ceaseless hunger
mesmerize you—for of you do, you will drown in their sorrow.
You must remember to swim, swim for your life toward the light.
6/27/20 —MH
Because I couldn’t imagine myself compiling a set of NYPC prompts without including a Mary Oliver poem as “combustion” for a poem of your own, I offer one of my favorites. Respond to it/ borrow (i. e., steal wisely) from it in any way you like:
West Wind #2
You are young. So you know everything. You leap
into the boat and begin rowing. But, listen to me.
Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without
any doubt, I talk directly to your soul. Listen to me.
Lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and
your heart, and heart's little intelligence, and listen to
me. There is life without love. It is not worth a bent
penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of a
dead dog nine days unburied. When you hear, a mile
away and still out of sight, the churn of the water
as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the
sharp rocks -- when you hear that unmistakable
pounding -- when you feel the mist on your mouth
and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls
plunging and steaming -- then row, row for your life
toward it.
Mary Oliver
DYLAN O TONN (an imitation poem)
a cut-up found poem based on Mary Oliver's West Wind #2
Listen, you were too young to know everything.
You fell from the open arms of the boat and begin to swim.
Without fins, without gills, without guile, and the waves
spoke directly to your soul as if you were born to it. Listen
to tide whispering. Lift your slender arms from the water,
orchestrate the oars, let your mind dwell, your heart is an anchor.
Listen to the wind. There is light within the darkness.
Remember to stop for that old coin in the road. It is a song of the past
when trinkets floated like baubles in the tidepools of memory.
When you hear the churn of the sea as it frets and gnaws
the carapaces of jagged rocks—you'll feel that unmistakable
pounding of the waves in the cave—& the pull of home,
you'll witness the endless battle between land and sea,
your soul and the darkness that lies ahead, and the rivulets
plunging and swirling—don't let their ceaseless hunger
mesmerize you—for of you do, you will drown in their sorrow.
You must remember to swim, swim for your life toward the light.
6/27/20 —MH
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