On Popular Demand – Imperfection is Beautiful – [5]

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“In nature, nothing is perfect and everything is perfect. Trees can be contorted, bent in weird ways, and they’re still beautiful.” – Alice Walker

“Use the talents you possess, for the woods would be very silent if no birds sang except the best.” – Henry Van Dyke

“Nothing and no one is perfect. It just takes a good eye to find those hidden imperfections.” – Daphne Delacroix

“There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.” – Francis Bacon Sr.

“Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.” ― Marilyn Monroe

“If you look closely at a tree you’ll notice it’s knots and dead branches, just like our bodies. What we learn is that beauty and imperfection go together wonderfully.” ― Matthew Fox

“Usefulness is not impaired by imperfection. You can still drink from a chipped cup.” – Greta K. Nagel

We tend to find that all things odd and imperfect are actually beautiful. Hello everyone and welcome to another exciting round of our monthly segment “On Popular Demand.” Due to receiving the highest number of votes our topic for this week is Imperfection. I strongly believe that no one is perfect. Our flaws are such that make us unique and beautiful and thus set us apart from the rest of the world. Tonight our task is simple. Write a poem or prose piece revolving around imperfection. Delve deep into your heart and pour out your views and opinions. Previously written work is more than welcome. For further inspiration please refer to the three wonderful poems below:

A Drop in the Ocean

by Russell Banks

Mysterious, mystifying, puzzling, wavering
an echo fills the empty catacombs
reciting words only heard from a movie
…Mirror, dear benevolent mirror crystallized on the wall
please, please tell me, aid me in my quest of knowledge
to know…who is the fairest of them all
‘Why does it matter? Do you hear yourself speaking?
Why should any of that matter if the only one in the mirror is you? ‘
Why should it matter if the only person in the mirror is you? …
Beauty…it’s not a contest, no question about it
It’s in everyone, everything
but people use its concept as a blindfold
transform it into a personal goal
a personal gain to be another conforming carbon cut out
to feel perfection coursing through their veins
Are they all vain; perfection is false, a distant myth
Beauty is a ticking clock that fades away with age
There it is, gone in the wind
Open your eyes and realize
mirrors are designed to show you the real you
Not a clone, not a fake, not a copy of imperfection
people are perfect just the way they are
Under all the lies that claim to beautify
to some, all you are is a drop in the ocean
though they’re sinking like ships in their own

Where do I Belong?

by Jesse Kaler

I have been to hell and heaven
None has seemed to fit me right.
Bending to the will of most men,
I say I have fallen to my knees,
I have fallen from heaven and risen from hell
To be here with the goddess,
my dear, my goddess is you.
Shrouded in imperfection
I look past the fears I had with you.
So where do I belong?
I belong in this place, this world,
solid, rigid, warm and ice cold.
I belong with the goddess that is you.
Free me from my darkest hour,
lead me into brighter light,
show me bright stars unhindered,
and I will bow to you.

She is

by Lisa Brannon

She is the gentle breeze that blows
Whispering in your ear
She is the calm that steers your heart
When your mind makes you fear
She is the glistening on the water
Painting ripples in the sunset
She’s the one true love that got away
The one you can’t seem to forget
She is the embers of your heart
You just can’t seem to control
Her fire it burns so brightly
It lights up your entire world
The one wild angel you can’t lock up
For you know it would be a sin
Because a woman like her was born to fly
Not meant to ever be caged
To know her is to love her
Every imperfection, every flaw
Because a love like hers is rarely seen
So your blessed if she comes along
Treat her with the most respect
Remember to be oh so sweet
With you she will share her world
She’ll build you such a beautiful life
Just be genuine to her soul

 

So pick up a pen and lets begin! As always the prompt will remain open the entire week so that everyone can write according to their own pace and time. Please click on the blue widget below. When it opens be sure to click on “add your link.” Now skip the blanks and proceed directly to “try here” written at the end in small font. It will direct you on how to link your poem. Please visit other Poets and do comment on their poems. Have fun ❤️

Prompt Nights – Love of beauty is taste. The creation of beauty is Art – [15]

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“Beauty is certainly a soft, smooth, slippery thing, and therefore of a nature which easily slips in and permeates our souls.” – Plato

“In every man’s heart there is a secret nerve that answers to the vibrations of beauty.” – Christopher Morley

“The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again.” -William Faulkner

“Art is a microscope which the artist fixes on the secrets of his soul, and shows to people these secrets which are common to all.” – Leo Tolstoy

“That which is striking and beautiful is not always good, but that which is good is always beautiful.” – Ninon de L’Enclos

“Art is the concrete artifact of faith and expectation, the realization of a world that would otherwise be little more than a veil of pointless consciousness stretched over a gulf of mystery.” – Stephen King

Hello everyone and welcome to another exciting week at Prompt Nights. A work of art is considered to be an epitome of the world. It is the result or expression of nature; for although the works of nature are innumerable and different, the result or the expression of them are rather similar and single. Hence a poet, painter, musician and architect, each seek to concentrate the radiance of the world and strive to satisfy the love of beauty which stimulates them to produce. Tonight our task is simple. Write a poem or prose revolving around either the subject of beauty or a piece of art. Explore the unlimited possibilities and perhaps combine both if need be. Previously written work is more than welcome. For further inspiration please refer to the two amazing poems below:

Ode to Beauty

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Who gave thee, O Beauty!
The keys of this breast,
Too credulous lover
Of blest and unblest?
Say when in lapsed ages
Thee knew I of old;
Or what was the service
For which I was sold?
When first my eyes saw thee,
I found me thy thrall,
By magical drawings,
Sweet tyrant of all!
I drank at thy fountain
False waters of thirst;
Thou intimate stranger,
Thou latest and first!
Thy dangerous glances
Make women of men;
New-born we are melting
Into nature again.
Lavish, lavish promiser,
Nigh persuading gods to err,
Guest of million painted forms
Which in turn thy glory warms,
The frailest leaf, the mossy bark,
The acorn’s cup, the raindrop’s arc,
The swinging spider’s silver line,
The ruby of the drop of wine,
The shining pebble of the pond,
Thou inscribest with a bond
In thy momentary play
Would bankrupt Nature to repay.

Ah! what avails it
To hide or to shun
Whom the Infinite One
Hath granted his throne?
The heaven high over
Is the deep’s lover,
The sun and sea
Informed by thee,
Before me run,
And draw me on,
Yet fly me still,
As Fate refuses
To me the heart Fate for me chooses,
Is it that my opulent soul
Was mingled from the generous whole,
Sea valleys and the deep of skies
Furnished several supplies,
And the sands whereof I’m made
Draw me to them self-betrayed?
I turn the proud portfolios
Which hold the grand designs
Of Salvator, of Guercino,
And Piranesi’s lines.
I hear the lofty Pæans
Of the masters of the shell,
Who heard the starry music,
And recount the numbers well:
Olympian bards who sung
Divine Ideas below,
Which always find us young,
And always keep us so.
Oft in streets or humblest places
I detect far wandered graces,
Which from Eden wide astray
In lowly homes have lost their way.

Thee gliding through the sea of form,
Like the lightning through the storm,
Somewhat not to be possessed,
Somewhat not to be caressed,
No feet so fleet could ever find,
No perfect form could ever bind.
Thou eternal fugitive
Hovering over all that live,
Quick and skilful to inspire
Sweet extravagant desire,
Starry space and lily bell
Filling with thy roseate smell,
Wilt not give the lips to taste
Of the nectar which thou hast.

All that’s good and great with thee
Stands in deep conspiracy.
Thou hast bribed the dark and lonely
To report thy features only,
And the cold and purple morning
Itself with thoughts of thee adorning,
The leafy dell, the city mart,
Equal trophies of thine art,
E’en the flowing azure air
Thou hast touched for my despair,
And if I languish into dreams,
Again I meet the ardent beams.
Queen of things! I dare not die
In Being’s deeps past ear and eye,
Lest there I find the same deceiver,
And be the sport of Fate forever.
Dread power, but dear! if God thou be,
Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me.

The Prologue

by Anne Bradstreet

To sing of wars, of captains, and of kings,
Of cities founded, commonwealths begun,
For my mean pen are too superior things:
Or how they all, or each, their dates have run;
Let poets and historians set these forth,
My obscure lines shall not so dim their work.

But when my wondering eyes and envious heart
Great Bartas’ sugared lines do but read o’er,
Fool I do grudge the Muses did not part
‘Twixt him and me that overfluent store;–
A Bartas can do what a Bartas will,
But simple I according to my skill.

From school-boys tongues no rhetoric we expect,
Nor yet a sweet consort from broken strings,
Nor perfect beauty where’s a main defect:
My foolish, broken, blemished Muse so sings;
And this to mend, alas, no art is able,
‘Cause nature made is so, irreparable.

Nor can I, like that fluent, sweet-tongued Greek
Who lisped at first, in future times speak plain;
By art he gladly found what he did seek–
A full requitl of his striving pain.
Art can do much, but this maxim’s most sure:
A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue
Who says my hand a needle better fits.
A poet’s pen all scorn I should thus wrong;
For such despite they cast on female wits,
If what I do prove well, it won’t advance–
They’ll say it was stolen, or else it was by chance.

But shure the ancient Greeks were far more mild,
Else of our sex why feignéd they those Nine,
And Posey made Calliope’s own child?
So ‘mongst the rest they placed the Arts Divine.
But this weak knot they will full soon untie–
The Greeks did naught but play the fools and lie.

Let Greeks be Greeks, and women what they are.
Men have precenency, and still excell.
It is but vain unjustly to wage war,
Men can do best, and women know it well.
Preëminence in all and each is yours–
Yet grant some small acknowledgement of ours.

And oh, ye high flownquills that soar the skies,
And ever with your prey still catch your praise,
If e’er you deign these lowly lines your eyes,
Give thyme or parsley wreath; I ask no bays.
This mean and unrefinéd ore of mine
Will make your glistening gold but more to shine.

 

So pick up a pen and lets begin! As always the prompt will remain open the entire week so that everyone can write according to their own pace and time. Please click on the blue widget below. When it opens be sure to click on “add your link.” Now skip the blanks and proceed directly to “try here” written at the end in small font. It will direct you on how to link your poem. Please visit other Poets and do comment on their poems. Have fun ❤️

Prompt Nights – Nothing is more memorable than Scent – [14]

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“Of all the ingredients we employ in the creation of a garden, scent is probably the most potent and the least understood. Its effects can be either direct and immediate, drowning our senses in a surge of sugary vapor, or they can be subtle and delayed, slowly wafting into our consciousness, stirring our emotions and coloring our thoughts.”
– Stephen Lacey

“Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains; another, a moonlit beach; a third, a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town. Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years. Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth.”
– Diane Ackerman

“For many people the scent of certain plants can revive memories with a vividness that nothing else can equal, for the sense of smell can be extraordinarily evocative, bringing back pictures as sharp as photographs of scenes that and left the conscious mind.”
– Thalassa Cruso

“The gardens of my youth were fragrant gardens and it is their sweetness rather than their patterns of their furnishings that I now most clearly recall.”
– Louise Beebe Wilder

“Can words describe the fragrance of the very breath of spring – that delicious commingling of the perfume of arbutus, the odor of pines, and the snow-soaked soil just warming into life.”
– Neltje Blanchan

“My garden, with its silence and pulses of fragrance that come and go on the airy undulations, affects me like sweet music. Care stops at the gates, and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.”
– Alexander Smith

Scent so sweet it governs the senses. Hello everyone and welcome to another exciting week at Prompt Nights. I remember studying  John Steinbeck’s,”The Chrysanthemums.” After reading this particular piece of literature and understanding the author’s point of view; the mere idea of associating scent with good and bad memories seemed intriguing to me. Do you also associate scent with memory? Tonight our task is simple. Write a poem or prose piece regarding the subject of scent. Feel free to explore the various possibilities and pour your heart out. Previously written work is more than welcome. For further inspiration please refer to the two amazing poems below:

The Perfume of Flowers

by Paula Glynn

The fields are filled,
With the perfume of flowers,
Poppies grow and sunflowers thrive,
While dandelions and daisies,
Pop up in the green of the grass,
Bluebells and roses blossom,
Every front door entrance and garden,
Filled with the perfume of flowers,
For it is summertime,
And nature is a beautiful canvas,
Where painters and poets,
Draw and describe the beauty of nature.

The air is filled,
With a beautiful fragrance,
All the perfumes of the flowers,
Combined for the heavenly senses,
And the freshly cut grass,
Smells so fresh and comforting,
For every summer that comes around,
There is only beauty to be found.
Bees, dragonflies, butterflies,
Going from flower-to-flower,
Keeping nature thriving,
And nature is truly beautiful,
The sun shining down upon earth,
Making heaven a place on earth.

And in the woods,
The trees form a cooling shade,
That leaves making woodland wildlife,
Do their work for nature,
For it is a gentle relief,
To be in the cooling shade,
Because this is the perfume of flowers,
Nature and wildlife working together,
To create a paradise only earth,
Knows how to make.

A Dryad’s Tale

by  Andrea Dietrich

One day while passing by a tree, I heard a sigh.
It seemed the oak could speak; I felt my knees go weak,
for like a siren’s song, his whisper made me long
to stop and lay me down upon his shaded ground.

Because the day was hot, I lingered at that spot.
The oak got in my mind because I felt inclined
to slip out of my dress, and yes, I must confess
it was as if that tree had cast a spell on me!

With words of poetry, he started wooing me.
His leaves then brushed my skin. I trembled deep within.
His branches were so lush, I hoped I would not blush
to think each sturdy limb might draw me up to him.

I don’t know how or why, but under summer’s sky
I disappeared into his essence and I knew
the tree had captured me. His wood nymph I would be,
for he and I were one that day beneath the sun.

As if immortal, now I live beneath his bough;
at times I disappear within him, but no fear
lives in me any more because the forest floor
I roam now with great joy; the woodland is my home!

Beneath the firmament, lost in my oak tree’s scent,
I feel completely free, his beauty all I see.
A young maid passes by; perhaps she hears us sigh
and thinks it but the breeze now passing through the trees.

But no, it is but I, beneath the summer sky
locked in my tree’s embrace, and with my new found grace,
I look at her and see the girl I used to be,
and my reality is this sweet fantasy

 

So pick up a pen and lets begin! As always the prompt will remain open the entire week so that everyone can write according to their own pace and time. Please click on the blue widget below. When it opens be sure to click on “add your link.” Now skip the blanks and proceed directly to “try here” written at the end in small font. It will direct you on how to link your poem. Please visit other Poets and do comment on their poems. Have fun ❤️

Prompt Nights – When armed with the license to Quote – [13]

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“A good book should leave you slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading it.” -William Styron

“Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers.” -Charles W. Eliot

“Books let us into their souls and lay open to us the secrets of our own.” -William Hazlitt

“To sit alone in the lamplight with a book spread out before you, and hold intimate converse with men of unseen generations — such is a pleasure beyond compare.” -Kenko Yoshida

“The worth of a book is to be measured by what you can carry away from it.” – James Bryce

“If there’s a book you really want to read but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” -Toni Morrison

Book lovers! Hello everyone and welcome to another exciting week at Prompt Nights. I can’t believe that the month of April is almost over. It was truly amazing with the events which were taking place the entire month i.e. NaPoWriMo at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month which was hosted by my dear friends Rommy Driks and Magaly Guerrero. Tonight, I want you guys to indulge in the world of books. Write a poem or prose piece which is inspired by your favorite author. It can range from an autobiography to a novel. Whichever strikes your poetic muse. You can also opt and choose your favourite quote and go along with it. The possibilities are endless. For further inspiration please refer to the four amazing poems below:

And Yet The Books 

by Czesław Miłosz

And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are,” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.

Where My Books Go

by William Butler Yeats

ALL the words that I utter,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
Storm-darken’d or starry bright.

Good Books

by  Edgar Guest

Good books are friendly things to own.
If you are busy they will wait.
They will not call you on the phone
Or wake you if the hour is late.
They stand together row by row,
Upon the low shelf or the high.
But if you’re lonesome this you know:
You have a friend or two nearby.

The fellowship of books is real.
They’re never noisy when you’re still.
They won’t disturb you at your meal.
They’ll comfort you when you are ill.
The lonesome hours they’ll always share.
When slighted they will not complain.
And though for them you’ve ceased to care
Your constant friends they’ll still remain.

Good books your faults will never see
Or tell about them round the town.
If you would have their company
You merely have to take them down.
They’ll help you pass the time away,
They’ll counsel give if that you need.
He has true friends for night and day
Who has a few good books to read.

There is a Land

Notes on art of Poetry

by  Dylan Thomas

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,
splashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.

 

So pick up a pen and lets begin! As always the prompt will remain open the entire week so that everyone can write according to their own pace and time. Please click on the blue widget below. When it opens be sure to click on “add your link.” Now skip the blanks and proceed directly to “try here” written at the end in small font. It will direct you on how to link your poem. Please visit other Poets and do comment on their poems. Have fun ❤

Prompt Nights – Jour de la Terre – Earth Day [12]

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“Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect.” -Chief Seattle

“I believe that there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us  aright.”-   Henry David Thoreau

“Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.” -Khalil Gibran

“The sun, with all those planets revolving around it and dependent on it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as if it had nothing else in the universe to do.” -Galileo Galilei

“I can still smell the green of the grass crushed beneath me. Feel the damp of the dew on my elbows. Hear the birdsong.” -Kristina Turner

“There is a way that nature speaks, that land speaks. Most of the time we are simply not patient enough, quiet enough to pay attention to the story.” -Linda Hogan

I believe that we should opt to awaken that hidden spiritual part of ourselves, along with sincere knowledge that we indeed are the guardians of planet Earth.  Hello everyone and welcome to another exciting week at Prompt Nights. Since its Earth Day, I thought we should do something different rather than be conventional. Our task is simple. Out of the four elements i.e (wind, water, fire and earth) choose one and embrace it in your poem. For example: What would you do if you were an ocean at risk? Fire being set to trees against your will? Wind being choked to death by pollution or earth stripped of her fields? Go wild, as the options are unlimited. For further inspiration please refer to the two wonderful poems below:

Song of Nature 

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Mine are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gulf of space,
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days.

I hid in the solar glory,
I am dumb in the pealing song,
I rest on the pitch of the torrent,
In slumber I am strong.

No numbers have counted my tallies,
No tribes my house can fill,
I sit by the shining Fount of Life,
And pour the deluge still;

And ever by delicate powers
Gathering along the centuries
From race on race the rarest flowers,
My wreath shall nothing miss.

And many a thousand summers
My apples ripened well,
And light from meliorating stars
With firmer glory fell.

I wrote the past in characters
Of rock and fire the scroll,
The building in the coral sea,
The planting of the coal.

And thefts from satellites and rings
And broken stars I drew,
And out of spent and aged things
I formed the world anew;

What time the gods kept carnival,
Tricked out in star and flower,
And in cramp elf and saurian forms
They swathed their too much power.

Time and Thought were my surveyors,
They laid their courses well,
They boiled the sea, and baked the layers
Or granite, marl, and shell.

But he, the man-child glorious,–
Where tarries he the while?
The rainbow shines his harbinger,
The sunset gleams his smile.

My boreal lights leap upward,
Forthright my planets roll,
And still the man-child is not born,
The summit of the whole.

Must time and tide forever run?
Will never my winds go sleep in the west?
Will never my wheels which whirl the sun
And satellites have rest?

Too much of donning and doffing,
Too slow the rainbow fades,
I weary of my robe of snow,
My leaves and my cascades;

I tire of globes and races,
Too long the game is played;
What without him is summer’s pomp,
Or winter’s frozen shade?

I travail in pain for him,
My creatures travail and wait;
His couriers come by squadrons,
He comes not to the gate.

Twice I have moulded an image,
And thrice outstretched my hand,
Made one of day, and one of night,
And one of the salt sea-sand.

One in a Judaean manger,
And one by Avon stream,
One over against the mouths of Nile,
And one in the Academe.

I moulded kings and saviours,
And bards o’er kings to rule;–
But fell the starry influence short,
The cup was never full.

Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,
And mix the bowl again;
Seethe, fate! the ancient elements,
Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.

Let war and trade and creeds and song
Blend, ripen race on race,
The sunburnt world a man shall breed
Of all the zones, and countless days.

No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,
My oldest force is good as new,
And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew.

The Darkling Thrush

by Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate,
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to me
The Century’s corpse outleant,
Its crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind its death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervorless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead,
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited.
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small,
With blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew,
And I was unaware.

So pick up a pen and lets begin! As always the prompt will remain open the entire week so that everyone can write according to their own pace and time. Please click on the blue widget below. When it opens be sure to click on “add your link.” Now skip the blanks and proceed directly to “try here” written at the end in small font. It will direct you on how to link your poem. Please visit other Poets and do comment on their poems. Have fun ❤️