Wacky doo! I’ve made it. A whole ten days of writing poetry. I started as a total newbie to adult poetry and I finish humbled. Now I have no doubts that a poet’s lot is wearying and soul-wrenching. I’m spent. But I’ve learnt so much about form and technique. I’ve written verse that I never would have considered without the prompts and the guidance. Thanks to wordpress and my fellow participants for sharing the journey.
The last challenge, the sonnet, was well left to last because, for me, this was the toughest. It seemed wrong for an amateur like me to tackle such an esteemed form. After hours I gave up on iambic pentameter but chose the Shakespearean rhyming scheme. I stayed up till after midnight writing my first effort ‘Finding My Voice,’ but all night it needled at me. Was my one and only contribution to the world of sonnets going to be so ego-centric? So this morning I wrote another ‘Beautiful Hurting Earth’ which eased my mind a little.
Prompt: The future
Form: The sonnet
Beautiful Hurting Earth
Oh, beautiful, blue hurting sphere,
Spinning around a brilliant, burning sun.
Will our tenure be short? Our end near?
In your eons is our race close to run.
Can we overcome the hatred and the greed?
Can your welfare come before the politic?
Can we work as one in our dire hour of need?
Or are we doomed to obstinance and rhetoric.
Alternatives to belching, dirty fossil fuel.
Alternatives to wrenching, ugly, useless war.
And yet we choose the deadly and the cruel.
For who? Not you and I. We want no more.
Don’t we all want an earth where those we hold dear,
Can live and breathe without ignorance and fear.
Finding My Voice
William the bard says life is but a play.
Actors all, we join the mighty rolling cast.
But taking the stage has not been my way –
For, without the clapping crowd the show won’t last,
And understudy, dresser, stagehand,
As well, I’ve done those parts, without regret.
Time turns and now it’s right for me to stand,
To find my voice, a role for this old girl yet.
I’ll sing a ballad, pen a poem, paint a green sea,
Stroll beaches, walk hills and in the valley camp
Write till late, write a play, write a book or three
I’ll play the artist, the writer, and the tramp.
My future’s mine to shape. If I may be so bold,
But shaping is not knowing what the years will hold.