The Poetry Marathon

Low rumbling, shuffling footfalls, gigantic feet. Something huge, moving toward them. Into the shadows, as it emerged into a patch of moonlight.

Twelve feet tall, skin a dull, granite gray. Lumpy body, like a boulder, its small bald head perched on top. Legs thick as tree trunks. Flat, horny feet.

The troll peered inside.

Making up its tiny mind.

Then slouched into the room.

* Elimination poem from passage in J.K. Rowling’s “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone”.

Our First kiss was sweet
You starred into my soul almost making me fall into a daze trying to see the extent your love go
You lick your lip my eyes widen at the thought it brings
Who would of thought that your mom would have pulled up oh wait did you say she have two jobs
We kiss she exited the vehicle the shutting door startles me
I turn around my heart drops because I thought I was in trouble
She looks at me and she speaks
hello Addy
Wait she knows my name
Oh what a relief
I wanted more but he headed to the door
He turned around and said your kiss was so sweet
I looked and watched before he had shut the door.
A shout informed that Watermelon was our flavor
I looked in my hand and noticed the blue bag of hard candy and a wrapper
And now I can say my first kiss was jolly and sweet.

A Golden Shovel poem, inspired by:
“As is a landscape to a blind man’s eyes”
-William Wordsworth

The eyes and their fickle functions taunt my mind as
they pretend to reveal mysteries to those whose focus is
sharp and dedicated, but their true aims seem to be showing us a
world full of threats and anxieties that hide behind the beautiful landscape.
What appears at first is a breathtaking sight that steals away your worries, before leaving you to
Wonder on what lies beneath the beauty. Eventually, that which you thought was a
sight to clear your mind of all negative thoughts, reveals a plot to blind
you to its obvious beauty, and leave you hollow and empty inside, until you see the beauty of man’s
creations only. And for the sake of your own mind, to nature’s stunning showings, you turn a blind man’s eye.

The Last Moments of Heaven

If I had known this would happen, and

if I could have guessed (though how could I) what

my gentleness would bring, I would have been rough

and insistent, but not wanting to scare you, I caged the beast

and honeyed my tongue, thinking that Fate, in its

evenness, had finally run out of torments, and now the hour

had arrived that it may mete out joy, that you would come.

As I walked home the sun was setting in all its colors, round

dinner time, and though I had a deep foreboding, I nonetheless smiled at

the thought you may be waiting for me, that the last

few days silence had been remnants of an old life, sullen as it slouches

into oblivion. I quickened my pace, almost singing as I skipped towards

my home, hoping for joyous news, my own Star of Bethlehem

shining in the parking-lot; you casually (with flowers?) waiting there to

answer in person, and I ignored the pangs of foreknowing what would be

awaiting me upon my arrival, what disastrous new chapter was about to be born.

Golden Shovel poem, borrowing the lines “And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” from W. B. Yeats’ Second Coming.

Pray Continually

People, people everywhere,

rambunctiously await

aweing days of morning.

Years go by, fleeting moments,

centuries. Great rulers

overturned, worlds change,

nothing sustains. Yet one by one

toddlers grow, smiling,

immune to destruction,

nascent beings hinging

upon kind words, clear skies

and continuity.

Love spins the world, keeps

living, and dies within souls,

yours and mine.

I became an expert on the meaning of shame
realizing what it means
some twenty-five years ago, if you can believe that

Back then, I still had hope that you and I could become we
though I had doubts, I did my best to resist

I’ll tell you what
had you and I actually become we
we could have surrendered completely to desire

But the part of the you and I equation that didn’t function was and
it took the distance of an ocean for us to express how we feel

There was no need to be ashamed
but we didn’t know that

You, me, we
we might have found some way to fulfill our desire
but we never figured out what

So the shame of you and me, the you and I who could never become we
is the shame we must forever live with, unable as we are to resist

(5 August 2017)

The line I used as my inspiration comes from Milan Kundera’s novel Immortality:

‘Shame means that we resist what we desire, and feel ashamed that we desire what we resist.’ (p. 330 of the 1991 Faber and Faber paperback edition)

HOUR EIGHT

Lines from ‘Mirror’ by Sylvia Plath

Tonight the caustic wind, love,
Gossips late and soon

My tears like vinegar

a tender breeze whisper some thoughts, tonight
I am a coin silver- the
mighty chunks of my unripe dreams caustic
corn husk in an Uncle Bob’s truck wails in the wind
I breathe shallots, pebbles, and mushrooms; ephemeral love
The neighbors at the farthest end brewing the soup and the gossips
Aunt Cathy has gone to the city market to buy blue lace for her new dress; it’s late
Moon hidden behind the pine trees and
as we wait for the dinner that would be served soon
pale skin feels like a sour aspic moon- my
bitter words simmer in the pot pan like vinegary tears
outpours and daydreams swelled in a warm chicken broth like
a stuffed piñata and we toast our wine with a dash of vinegar.

Copyrighted by Ruchi Chopra, 2017.

Here is my attempt at a golden shovel:

Line from ‘Marginalia’ by Richard Wilbur

<<Things concentrate at the edges; the pond surface>>

Some day I acknowledge relations, not things

Is the important belonging to concentrate?

The mourning and cries are nothing at

Their loss – education of a, an and the

Is significant, but why relation edges

In the mud of confusion and the

Perplex layers of silent pond

Hide their true face on the surface

If you could see inside me you might glimpse the fire blazing

Smoke confined to the inside, carrying the flames off

To the four corners of my psyche, producing a nervous

But persistent quiver that breaks the tension

Of keeping the sadness at bay, of having

To hold it all in, suffocating my voice with a

Hard hand at my mind’s wheel, steering directly into the breakdown.