Prompt Nights – Spontaneous or Not [2]

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“I tend to be really pragmatic, but ultimately tend to be attracted to people who pull me into more spontaneity. I’ve really learned that, through surrender, the best experiences of my life have happened.” – Amy Adams

“Real laughter is spontaneous. Like water from the spring it bubbles forth a creation of mingled action and spontaneity – two magic potions in themselves – the very essence of laughter – the unrestrained emotion within us.” – Douglas Fairbanks

“What I fear and desire most in this world is passion. I fear it because it promises to be spontaneous, out of my control, unnamed, beyond my reasonable self. I desire it because passion has color, like the landscape before me. It is not pale. It is not neutral. It reveals the backside of the heart.” – Terry Williams

“Creativity is not merely the innocent spontaneity of our youth and childhood; it must also be married to the passion of the adult human being, which is a passion to live beyond one’s death.” – Rollo May

“Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit.” – E.E Cummings

“Follow your bliss, and doors will open for you that you never knew existed. Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors for you where there were only walls.” – Joseph Campbell

Hello everyone and welcome to another exciting week at Prompt Nights. Thanks to each and every one of you for your love and support which in turn made the inauguration such a huge success! Tonight, I want each and every one of you to pen down your deepest emotions regarding the subject of spontaneity. Do you plan ahead or like to go with the flow? Do you prefer random holiday trips or planned vacations – as each holds its own unique thrill. It is said that the best of works arise from bouts of spontaneity. Do you believe such a thing could happen? It’s time to find out! For further inspiration please refer to the following two poems below:


By Samuel Daniel

TEMPT me no more; I will not be delayed
In hope, or balked in what I know is mine;
Yet not for me is there of worth displayed,
In use or store that’s not already thine.
Spectacle for the eye in dimness cast,
And prophet’s vision other than for me;
The mighty “Now” withholds no insight past,
Or potent speech, that life might better be.
That which is vital, first and always new,
I sense myself, nor need to take in trust
The probability of what is true
From “storied urn or animated bust.”
Thus shall life’s morning never know decline,
And all that is or can be shall be thine and mine.

Spontaneous Me

By Walt Whitman

The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with,
The arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder,
The hill-side whiten’d with blossoms of the mountain ash,
The same, late in autumn–the hues of red, yellow, drab, purple, and
light and dark green,
The rich coverlid of the grass–animals and birds–the private
untrimm’d bank–the primitive apples–the pebble-stones,
Beautiful dripping fragments–the negligent list of one after
another, as I happen to call them to me, or think of them,
The real poems, (what we call poems being merely pictures,)
The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men like me,
This poem, drooping shy and unseen, that I always carry, and that all
men carry, 10
(Know, once for all, avow’d on purpose, wherever are men like me, are
our lusty, lurking, masculine poems;)
Love-thoughts, love-juice, love-odor, love-yielding, love-climbers,
and the climbing sap,
Arms and hands of love–lips of love–phallic thumb of love–breasts
of love–bellies press’d and glued together with love,
Earth of chaste love–life that is only life after love,
The body of my love–the body of the woman I love–the body of the
man–the body of the earth,
Soft forenoon airs that blow from the south-west,
The hairy wild-bee that murmurs and hankers up and down–that gripes
the full-grown lady-flower, curves upon her with amorous firm
legs, takes his will of her, and holds himself tremulous and
tight till he is satisfied,
The wet of woods through the early hours,
Two sleepers at night lying close together as they sleep, one with an
arm slanting down across and below the waist of the other,
The smell of apples, aromas from crush’d sage-plant, mint, birch-
bark, 20
The boy’s longings, the glow and pressure as he confides to me what
he was dreaming,
The dead leaf whirling its spiral whirl, and falling still and
content to the ground,
The no-form’d stings that sights, people, objects, sting me with,
The hubb’d sting of myself, stinging me as much as it ever can any
The sensitive, orbic, underlapp’d brothers, that only privileged
feelers may be intimate where they are,
The curious roamer, the hand, roaming all over the body–the bashful
withdrawing of flesh where the fingers soothingly pause and
edge themselves,
The limpid liquid within the young man,
The vexed corrosion, so pensive and so painful,
The torment–the irritable tide that will not be at rest,
The like of the same I feel–the like of the same in others, 30
The young man that flushes and flushes, and the young woman that
flushes and flushes,
The young man that wakes, deep at night, the hot hand seeking to
repress what would master him;
The mystic amorous night–the strange half-welcome pangs, visions,
The pulse pounding through palms and trembling encircling fingers–
the young man all color’d, red, ashamed, angry;
The souse upon me of my lover the sea, as I lie willing and naked,
The merriment of the twin-babes that crawl over the grass in the sun,
the mother never turning her vigilant eyes from them,
The walnut-trunk, the walnut-husks, and the ripening or ripen’d long-
round walnuts;
The continence of vegetables, birds, animals,
The consequent meanness of me should I skulk or find myself indecent,
while birds and animals never once skulk or find themselves
The great chastity of paternity, to match the great chastity of
maternity, 40
The oath of procreation I have sworn–my Adamic and fresh daughters,
The greed that eats me day and night with hungry gnaw, till I
saturate what shall produce boys to fill my place when I am
The wholesome relief, repose, content;
And this bunch, pluck’d at random from myself;
It has done its work–I tossed it carelessly to fall where it may.


Next week we will be having our first ever “On Popular Demand” segment. For this, I need you guys to discuss and choose a topic amongst yourselves. Let me know which topic you would like to be featured. Please refer to the chatroll on the website or the poll which I have created on the group page on Facebook. And remember, the topic which receives the highest number of votes wins?

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. Those who wish to link old poems are most welcome to do so. 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 ❤️

10 thoughts on “Prompt Nights – Spontaneous or Not [2]

  1. Susan says:

    I adore Walt Whitman, and this poem has awed me–he can be so sexual as part of his spontaneous free flowing insights. I wonder if, since AIDS and other STDs, THAT has lost its charm or whether it has tucked itself into marriage and long term partnerships to feed the secret smile?

    • Sanaa says:

      Hello Susan,

      Thanks for stopping by, so glad you liked it 😀
      Highly appreciated, have a great week ahead.

      PS: I agree that Walt Whitman can be bold at times, but this was the only poem which came close to matching the prompt! Sigh, perhaps you’re right. It must have lost its charm.

    • Sanaa says:

      Hello Bjorn,

      Thank you so much 😀 I ll be right over to read your poem.
      Highly appreciated, have a great week ahead 😀

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