Sometimes I feel I must write poetry,
Sing of something I know or want to know.
I’m never sure of what drives as I write
Gibberish, at least some, it seems to me.
Yet, when I happen to express something well,
My heart expands in joy at the words I see.
To be able to write so it affects
The heart, the soul or the mind.
That’s a goal I set for myself.
If I can reach that goal, I will feel
As if my life has been successful.
One subject for poems: love between people,
Not just lovers (men and women); I loved my Mom
So much that just thinking of her
Made me feel really good.
My Dad? Well, he was so rough and hard.
I admitted even to myself, that I loved him, also.
My brothers? I guess so, and
My four sisters, a little easier
To say I loved them and even their kids.
I probably loved a few of my friends, too.
At least the ones to whom I told some secrets.
If any of this constitutes a poem,
I hope you like it well enough to save.
I MUST WRITE POETRY
Sometimes I feel I must write poetry,
Sing of something I know or want to know.
I’m never sure of what drives as I write
Gibberish, at least some, it seems to me.
Yet, when I happen to express something well,
My heart expands in joy at the words I see.
To be able to write so it affects
The heart, the soul or the mind.
That’s a goal I set for myself.
If I can reach that goal, I will feel
As if my life has been successful.
One subject for poems: love between people,
Not just lovers (men and women); I loved my Mom
So much that just thinking of her
Made me feel really good.
My Dad? Well, he was so rough and hard.
I admitted even to myself, that I loved him, also.
My brothers? I guess so, and
My four sisters, a little easier
To say I loved them and even their kids.
I probably loved a few of my friends, too.
At least the ones to whom I told some secrets.
If any of this constitutes a poem,
I hope you like it well enough to save.
EACH WORK OF ART
Emerging
from the closed cocoon,
a butterfly on the wing:
each work of art, God’s gift,
streams rainbow colors
for the mind,
memories for the heart
UPON SEEING FOR THE FIRST TIME ROTHKO’S MURALS FOR THE FOUR SEASONS
(Simon Schama, February 1970)
If the large crimsoned canvases
Had not just arrived,
He would not now
Find himself suspended
In their vast depth.
The sound that throbbed
In his head was crimson, too,
And had nothing
To do with the place
He had intended to reach.
Deep crimson rusted
Nearly to black,
Crimson fluxing as in mirage
Brilliant, dark, dim emanations
of Rothko’s silence.
The purposeful stride
That had brought him
Here—abandoned
His earlier goal—forgotten.
He was caught
In the pause
Between breath
And heartbeat
He had not expected
This confrontation.
Deep in angles of crimson
His mind staggered
With knowledge.
Swallowing in great gulps
The reek of dim red air.
He was pulled irresistibly
Into the emotional vortex
Of the murals.
Which had caught him
Unaware
And
Unprepared
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“EACH WORK OF ART” is included this week in honor of International Artist Day, October 25. This poem was published in chapbook: Medley (approx. 1990)
REFRACTIONS—a poem by Robert Roxby
“I MUST WRITE POETRY” is presented this week for October 25, International Artist Day as poetry is an art. The poem was found in the author’s journal.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“SIMON SCHAMA, FEBRUARY 1970, UPON SEEING FOR THE FIRST TIME ROTHKO’S MURALS FOR THE FOURS SEASONS” is presented this week for October 25, International Artist Day. The poem was inspired by an episode on the public television series narrated by Simon Schama.
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
Readers who write in response to one of the prompts listed each month in Splintered Glass, may see their work presented here on the last week of that month. Though poems are preferred, short prose work will also be considered for publication.
Guidelines for submission:
SPLINTERS FOR OCTOBER 2024
GHOSTLY FIGURES
Ghostly figures stride across the rims of these hills
Standing tall, bronzed bodies, gifted by God
Striding swiftly, proudly as if they were princes
Maybe they were—they knew not that name.
They, themselves, treasured the land;
It was thought of as something to be passed
To their descendants without any spoil.
They took only what they needed today
Putting something aside for their children.
I still seem to see them striding the rims
At that magic hour of early twilight.
The ghosts seem never to leave.
The beauty of this land entrapped the souls.
There! Look quickly now at the hills.
See! Where nightfall meets the evening sky.
NATURE MOURNS
It’s a stormy, dark night
The seas flinging, frothing with foam
Toss in fitful slumber
On their white sand-beds.
The moon is ghastly,
Flees across a blackened sky.
The wind’s low voice
Has taken to dreadful, deep sobbing:
And the hills, with heads bowed
And shoulders hunched
Are draped in mourning.
What secret sorrow
What awful foe
Has taught nature
Such abysmal woe?
NO POETRY, NOT TODAY
No poetry, not today,
But a pen to dance?
To twirl and prance
Spinning into arabesque
And pirouette
Gliding over the tracery
The delicate filigree
The perfectly tatted lace
A net to catch and hold
To shape and mold
The sound and sense
That is the essence of poetry?
Ah, no. Not today,
Not yesterday,
Nor even perhaps tomorrow.
AUTHOR NOTES
GLASS RAIN—the poetry by Margaret Roxby
“NATURE MOURNS” is included this week for October 13, UN International Day for Disaster Risk Reduction. This poem was found among the poet’s papers.
REFRACTIONS—a poem by Robert Roxby
“GHOSTLY FIGURES” appears this week for Native American Day , October 14. The author had deep respect for the native people in America and often wrote about them. This poem was found in his journal.
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS—the poetry of Kathleen Roxby
“NO POETRY, NOT TODAY” was selected for National Train Your Brain Day October 13. One option for exercising your brain is to attempt poetry, even if just to report your failure at creating the poem of your desire.