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My name is Joy, and I love to write. Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground. Kiya's gift. I love it!
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"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN


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Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.

David Whyte


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This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.

September 9, 2016 at 8:59pm
September 9, 2016 at 8:59pm
#891891
Prompt: While at Omi International Arts Center in Ghent, New York, artists Alex Schweder and Ward Shelley built a house that spins and tilts in agreement with the wind, and the shifting weight of its inhabitants. Then they resided in the structure for five days, and will spend another several days living there this fall. Write a poem or story inspired by the image or idea of living in a structure that is constantly spinning, and which tilts up or down as you walk through it. What kind of vocabulary or pacing might mimic or reflect the sensation of spinning? How can you play with emotional weight or levity to create shifting feelings throughout your work?


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Tiles in the House of Wind

Tempestuous tiles heaving, weaving
slippery with vertigo
shift inward, outward
gyrating with gusts and surges,
their darkening swells strike
accusingly at my human eyes
and while those demented squares pulsate,
I'd better not jump off the earth
to defeat
my many imaginary dooms.

“Instead, focus on the immediate,”
I tell myself, “Then, look at yourself
from a distance, at your various ills,
at your thin skin thickened on the outside,
unused teeth and nails,
and things that torture you…
for your history will count
all skeletons one by one
and they will draw near and sway away
alternately--strange, uncertain,
just like the ground
teetering under your feet.”


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