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Tuesday, April 5, 2016

Napowrimo 2016 Day Five: Flower hiding in a poem: Incorporating the name of a seed variety in a poem.

Today's challenge is to incorporate the name of a seed variety in a poem (they even included seed catalogs to give us ideas.) I'll try to work a flower into this one, a flower my husband brought home from market in hopes of simulating spring this chilly April morning...Please comment and tell me if you can FIND the flower in this poem,  and what you think it is.

As sunset casts its rosy glow
across the silent
lea,
my voice goes out in song,
Please Lord, if you please, may my
love come back to me.
As the twilight turns to
night love birds begin to repeat,
tell again words to that old  song.

**NO READING FURTHER UNTIL YOU FIND THE FLOWER:  BE HONEST: DID YOU?**





















                                  ANSWER KEY to Hidden Flower
                                                                   by Shirley Smith Franklin

                                                                  A(Z )sunset casts its rosy glow
                                                                  Across the
                                                                  Lea, my voice goes out in song,
                                                                  Please, Lord, if you please, may my
                                                                  love come back to me.
                                                                 As the twilight turns to
                                                                  night, love birds begin to repeat,
                                                                  tell again words to that old song.

Ooh, this will need some tweaking to make it sing, while maintaining the flower spelling...






Napowrimo 2016 Day Four: Why March is the cruelest month

March, 2016
Today's challenge is " to write a poem in which you explore what you think is the cruelest month, and why."

The Cruelist Month
by Shirley Smith Franklin

March, cruelest month of all,
histrionic about-face
poverty stricken next to fall,
when colors advance and night
fades sooner but gradually, 
unlike March, unpredictable, 
reckless with warmth, sunshine, cold,
endlessly threatening squall,
calling forth picnic sunshine
and reneging after all,
blustering into the party,
blasting in cold from the hall.

But this is still the way of the world.
April is coming, the flowers sing.
To everything there is a season, 
so let frivolous March have its fling.

[This poem is a little disappointing...or can it be redeemed?  March itself 
really can be disappointing...It is, this year! In my past experience, 
not many poems get written during this changeable (changeling?) season...
Lordwilling I'll rise to the challenge of a poem a day, not just in March
but  in perpetuity, that is, as long as He gives me utterance  Meanwhile.  
I will work with this poem till I get March's personality right!    

April 10th:  It's been revised!  Did you notice?   But I think it still lacks pizazz.  Do you?             


Napowrimo 2016, Day Three: Poem as Fan Letter to Pekka Kuusisto

Dear, and after one evening,
I say so advisedly,
Pekka, pronouncing both k's
the way Finnish people do,
as though relishing the name
like the opportunity
to relish your performance
fresh and new, anticipating
up coming performances
before even half of this one
before performance itself,
before you opened your mouth,
spoke in unassuming tones,
though not as unassuming
as your unassuming encore,
your black garb not completely
though almost formless nor cliche'.
Those slender shoes, or
were they leather stockings
slipped into the air as you,
dervish or spritely turned
and leaped to the music,
playing and peering into
the first violinist's eyes,
only you were the first
violinist, conductor,
and sprite, leaning, leaping,
the first section breathless,
not breaking but driving
a forward intensity
building, ebbing, while
a brand new kind of mozart
filled with innuendo heartfelt,
second act dance. My
heartfelt thank you to you.

Sunday, April 3, 2016

Napowrimo 2016 Day 2 challenge: Write a family poem

Exercise, "The Family"
by Shirley Amith Franklin

The family, the family
oh where has it gone,
parents departed,
brothers have flown.
The sister I craved
never appeared,
Children once cherished
never are near.
But cherish them all
I will, never fear,
we're joined at the hip
and the spirit is clear.
I love you dear family
too much to relate,
(oxymoronic
you may debate)
so haste I to say
before it's too late,
I love you family,
warts, moles and all--
more than this drivel
pretends to recall.
However distant
it's never to late
for true confession:
family, you're great.      Note: Not very happy with this one...the idea has potential, but the poem uses
          S.S. F.                  trite expressions, culminating in the last lame line...

Friday, April 1, 2016

NaPoWriiMo 2016, National Poetry Writing Month, Day One: Two Lunes

I'm anxious as I record these first words on my commitment to NaPoWriMo's challenge to write a poem a day, to their prompt or my ow liking.  There's so much other work already piled up on the desk, too many other things to do.  I get distracted and overstay at the keyboard.  Can I do this?

My answer: is this start.  All I can do is try.  Excuse the drivel, folks, if it comes to that.  I'm in it for the exercise.  If anything develops further, that will be a bonus. Like practicing a discipline.  Like learning how and what other authors write (each prompt includes another participant's blog and an international writer whose work appears by translation in English...to look up...exposure to the art, artists of the pen.

Today's challenge is to "write a lune... a sort of English-language haiku. While the haiku is a three-line poem with a 5-7-5 syllable count, the lune is a three-line poem with a 5-3-5 syllable count.
There’s also a variant based on word-count, instead of syllable count, where the poem still has three lines, but the first line has five words, the second line has three words, and the third line has five words again. "

Okay, I can be looney for a bit.  (It's past midnight, technically day two, as I write this)...

Or lune-y, as the case may be.  Here are my NaPoWriMo beginnings.

Lune #1:    Chamber orchestra

                   Avant garde
                   Music's before time.                 (We'd heard Pekka Kuusisto for the first time tonight.)

Lune #2:   Writing for me means caution

                   Get enough sleep
                   To be in the moment.             (Technically, Lune #2 meets both parts of the challenge.)

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

"We are Andhra women, and we know how to ad-JUST!"

                                                                                                             
                                                                                                           Guntur, A.P., India
                                                                                                           Last week in January, 2016

Five decades ago (can you believe it?!) this was the cheerful mantra of my Indian teacher friends when faced with incredible amounts of correction work (like, sixty students per class), frequent unexpected school closings, or a strict headmistress's order to forego lessons to prepare for special occasions and visitors.  And adjust they did, while I, young and ?perhaps? idealistic, spluttered in the wake of their self-talk, positive-think.

This frequent testing of one's ability to adjust is definitely a factor in the incredible resilience evidenced every day across every age group of India's diverse population.
                                                                                           
Not long after things settle down following the maddening soundscape of our first week here in December, our son calls to see how we are doing.  I comment on how freely and frequently family members move among the three brothers' apartments in our almost-new building (Mary Shree, named in memory of my mother-in-law). 'Of course,' I say, 'We can adjust And, at the end of the day, we each have our own separate place, right?'

Are             --             you             --             kid             --             ding             ....    ?

"This is India," a refrain repeated like a mantra whenever (like, frequently) plans go awry. It is not long before the ability of all of our families, who have lived all of our adult lives separately, to live and interact as a joint family is tested.

A major remodeling of a sister- and brother-in-law's house has stalled; it won't be ready for visitors expected a few days hence.  Her daughter and a British colleague, along with his family, and a Belgian priest, are due in ten days for a three and two week stays, including a formal engagement party for the young couple. Where to host them? Time for group-think.

Three brothers and two sisters meet to confer on the most culturally appropriate way to provide comfortable hospitality.  Too banal and inconvenient, a nice, nearby hotel is out of the question. Not enough privacy and also inconvenient: to disperse the family among apartments of three brothers who already live at Mary Shree and the other sister's apartment a mile away.  How about utilizing one of the two vacant Mary Shree apartments?  It's a 'no-brainer; the obvious best solution is to host the family in the apartment of one of the two brothers and families still to come on holiday from the states, just before the guest family is due to depart.

Fine.  We can adjust.

There's just one thing: the apartments are unfurnished. Beds? Frig? Curtains and linens? No problem. Move things over from the house under rehab.

There's just one more thing: sister-in-law moves into our own guest room to better be able to direct logistics of cleaning, moving and meal planning.  Here she will stay, with her daughter in another bedroom, for the duration of the run-up-to and including their guests' India stay.  Another opportunity to adjust.

Cooking will occur in our apartment, with additional input from the two brothers already resident in their own apartments in the building. My hubby suggests his sister take over our cooking planning and supervision, in favor of her guests (and us too).With help:  Our driver/cook and cleaning gal, full and part time, respectively,  have only agreed to work for the two of us, that too, for only a few months a year.  Suddenly they are being pressed into intense service, preparing the dinner and doing doing the laundry for

Every day becomes an exercise in determining and moving furniture, curtains, living room, minimal kitchen utensils, bedroom and bathroom furnishings, some from apartments of three brothers already living in the building, some from her or her sister's house. Frequent conferrings add more ideas to the list of what might be wanted or needed. Tea?A hotplate so as to have it ready in the morning? Stocking up on supplies for the duration.

Now, more than ever, you never know who's in which apartment or serving which meal or item to whom.  But everyone is behind the project, and it falls into place.  I have relatively little to do: just basically stay out of the way. Thinking that the British are likely to be extremely polite,  I check my laid-back mid-western manners, wondering whether I might say something offensive or commit a blunder, whether they'll find our hospitality appropriate or presumptuous.

Suddenly, they are here, our niece a tiny, beaming young woman, her beau tall, shy, and soft spoken. But it's his parents who blow us away.  They are as casual and unassuming as ever guests could be. Conversations warm up, cameras are at the ready, meals--and shopping--begin.

The young man's mom, Rosemary, and I have a practical and sisterly gabfest while shopping for suitable Indian garb to wear to the engagement. Each of us confesses to feeling awkward about wearing a saree (for me, a change from my youthful eagerness to try just that), as cheerfully expected by the women of the family, and our helper, Pushpa.  The saree is undoubtedly the garment of elegance, but the clumsiness of age and lack of practice leave me feeling awkward in one, and it's too late to order the obligatory, tailor made, close fitting, matching blouse.  We're under a time crunch. Other dresses we see are over-the-top gaudy or ill fitting.  I am about to give up when Rosemary points out nice features of a Punjabi dress ensemble, which I try on, and finally buy. She remains undecided whether to try 'dressing Indian' for the engagement, or just be herself.  We relate.

Back at home, hubby and I cling to our nap schedule, followed by tea.  The Brits do too, seating themselves at table for tea as well as meals.  Usually.  They eat what they are served, happily including the stronger spices over which my stomach has begun to protest. They are prompt and proactive for whatever is to come up next on their trip agenda.  So, not to worry, they can adjust.

There's the engagement event, Christmas, two more brother-in-laws' families coming by New Year, they and the "Brits' staying for a couple of weeks, and then the approving and interviewing of possible 'matches' (candidates) for marriage with another niece or two, a family reunion, for good measure.  While we try to gain some momentum on nonprofit work we are here to do.

The young people of the families visiting from USA show decidedly independent preferences in their activities, not all of them pre-approved by their 'elders,' who in turn are equally eager to settle in to their apartments for the first time.  The young cousins revel in each others' company, and are on their best while just hanging out at home, or while at church, or on field trips organized especially in honor of the British visitors by the brother-in-law who is their erstwhile host.

Not to worry, everyone seems able, on some level, to adjust.  As each day continues to unfold in unexpected ways, the question is, can we?

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Source of Our Joy

Source of Our Joy, by Shirley Smith Franklin                                                                 
                                                                                               Last week in December, 2015

In this mixed up and topsy-turvy world, full to bursting with hopes and fears, migrations, mountains quaking, icebergs and oceans melting and heating, how and to whom does Christmas come?

Does it come as strong arms lifting a frightened child from the tired arms of a parent clambering out of a boat onto firm ground of uncertain refuge? Does it come in the form of barbaric acts and sweeping migrations in the name of God and freedom?  A volunteer chatting the evening away with a stranger who has outlived all her relatives and friends.? Children’s memorized recitations and role-play? Amplified voices exhorting the faithful to praise or to pray, now and forevermore? School children decorating place mats and singing for senior citizens? Worshipers streaming to and from the church (ten thousand is a modest estimate of the crowd at our neighborhood church despite wearying sixty minute sermons, and ear-splitting audio-over-amplification) during five hours on Christmas Day? In the form of a skinny teenage mother nursing a toddler at the street corner, resting, along with a few more beggars, in the glare of the noonday sun from their holiday windfall from door-to-door canvassing for a few rupees, ripe fruit and old clothes? A child asking the origin and meaning of the word Christmas? Does it come on the wind as music, old familiar or shrill new, songs in so many languages that only God could understand them all? As instantly translated high level talks among world leaders in well lit, lofty chambers? In an outdoor, candle and moonlit circle of worshipers with a background of gently throbbing drums?  Crinkle and crush of bright wrappings  tossed aside from gifts of more or less thought and value, given out of duty or love?  In three family members rushing another to the ER, or the medical team bending over him or her, just as the angels once bent low to sing their song of life-giving love?

How has Christ come for you this Christmas?

And where will you seek Him in the year to come?

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