Postcard from Island Gulag #669A

Hi all !

Having a great time here in post-modern poetry.
We’ve been on the island since Sylvia Plath croaked in ’63.
It’s been a bit smoggy and verbose   incoherent   gratuitously cryptic, but the prison-guards are super-nice and they let us write Haiku once in a while. There’s this MFA creative-writing place just up the road from the gulag, it’s really charming. They publish a chapbook that 4 people on the island read. They also host workshops, like How to Find Your Authentic Voice and Pushing Language Beyond the Boundaries. Last night we saw some non-identity-politics-driven verse in the nearby wilderness reserve. It had beautiful plumage and made totally weird sounds. (Hey Dylan, you’re remembering to feed my muse, right? Don’t let her out after 5 since she might stay out all night. She does NOT like the free-verse abstract work. Feed her the structured message-oriented stuff to the right of the literary-elite class. Thanks ☺ ) Anyway, we’re trapped on this island so if you find someway to get us off, do your best.
PLEEZ tell the editorial prison-guards that we are working on our English Lit degrees. And send the Maya Angelou and Adrienne Rich books soon !!!!!

Love,
Rita Dove’s Bookshelf

PROMPT:   draft a prose poem
in the form/style of a postcard

 

 

Double Divination: Prompt Response

    Major Arcana VII

I drove a chariot for Egypt’s dead gods,
obeyed decrees of an angry Pharaoh.
Vision widens where hope seems to narrow
as coral crusts the rims and axle-rods.
Submerged upon the sands my army’s host;
Erythrean currents their secrets keep.
The waters gave way, drowned me in the deep
while God led you forth toward your promised coast.
There was no choice for me, the charioteer.
A tyrant sent me forth to hunt you down;
pursuing you, I thought your end was near.
In the descent, I lost my star and crown.
My lord was false, while yours continues strong;
I rise from depths to further you along.

 Charioteer3   Charioteer2

 

House of Cards

Bright child of the Tarot , a new age awaits you—

but not through the mazes you’re wandering in.

Your gypsy desire and clairvoyant excursions

are setting your beautiful brain all a-spin.

The dog at the precipice barks out a warning:

the FOOL, the MAGICIAN and PRIESTESS are wrong

Pay no heed to their signs and the omens around you—

let faith be your shield when the DEVIL seems strong.

JUSTICE, as blind as the HERMIT is horny,

has seen that our TOWER is stricken and doomed.

The SUN, MOON and STARS in their orbits bear witness

as LOVERS  in bondage to DEATH are consumed . . .

Egypt can’t help you. The CHARIOT‘s stalled

While the TEMPERANCE angel was mixing the drinks.

The EMPRESS (a tedious feminist) preaches

an upside down future, the HANGED MAN thinks . . .

Though the WHEEL almost crushes you turning this way

And the staff of correction has battered you hard

I am sure you will make it, if only you pray

to the sovereign elector who holds every card

for a ray of redemption to light up your way.

Let the Major Arcana now bow and acknowledge

as  JUDGMENT is sounded and shatters the sky

that omniscient and just is the blessed Redeemer

who loves every lunatic card-addled dreamer

like you and like me. Therefore hear when I cry

that the WORLD in its fullness can’t harbor His love—

nor the heavens within nor without nor above . . .

May the HIEROPHANT‘s dynasty wither away

and the EMPEROR‘s  scepter be broken to shards

as the breath of God’s Spirit comes into our world

to reveal the true STRENGTH of your house made of cards.

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Synesthetics

Sent over neural pathways
the sight of a scent
could make one wax
transcendent:
Yankee Candle

Budding one’s tongue,
the sound of a taste
may disturb the ears
as aural astral waste:
Monosodium Glutamate

To feel her touch
might batter one’s senses
when her sight is beheld
beyond defenses:
Tear Gas

Sin is apt
to skew such lapses.
Sin’s esthetic
glimpsed in apses
acts as anesthetic;
dulls our enhanced ecstatic senses:
a synthetic synaptic celestial deception . . .

Make sense?


prompt:
  write a poem that includes images that engage all five senses. Try to be as concrete and exact as possible with the “feel” of what the poem invites the reader to see, smell, touch, taste and hear.

Ode to a Caulk Gun

NaPoWriMo prompt: a poem that takes the form of a warning label

STICK’EM UP
with LIQUID NAILS

DANGER ! EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE
See Other Caution on Back Panel:

I’m hot for you Cowgirl. You’re so flammable my glue-gun starts to melt; my screwdriver starts twisting when you loosen that low-slung belt. You make me feel like laying re-bar in a freshly-poured foundation. Shoot me up with that caulk gun baby—I need you like salvation. Ten and one-half fluid ounces—pull off your top, pop a love-cap in me. Fingerin’ your trigger while the job is gettin’ bigger so take me for a ride to the hardware store, honey, cause I’m seeing red and feeling white on your golden background’s sheer delight.  Hammer me a heart-full, spike me on a cross of blonde, I’m hanging ten, surfing the tube of your magic wand. I’ve been in love ever since I first waterproofed my seamy undersides with you . . . stand over me in those red, red boots, you Liquid Nails Girl—and from your pure white Stetson let righteousness unfurl. You won the shoot-out long before you even drew, my dear. Lost hope of the Wild West, Final Frontal Feminine Frontier—there’s only one side of you . . . your GOOD side.  Just one look and your fearless gaze silences the foes, my blooming prairie rose.
YEE-HAW !  Be my angel, be my dream, my valentine rodeo queen, be my bodyguard, my therapist, long & tall & hard & wet—be my Liquid Nails Girl forever and I’ll ride right into your sunset . . .

NEXT IDEA: the Land O’ Lakes Squaw . . .

IMAGE CREDIT:  radargeek @ flickriver.com