Why I love Ellaine!!

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The completion of Writing 201 was never to be the end of my poetic education. There will never be enough to learn, I wanted more. There is a wide range of tools that can claim my personal poetic arsenal as home, and I welcome them willingly, Its an incredible exercise in growth.. I made the acquaintance of the Villanelle at my first poetry workshop, Its a 19 line form that has 2 refrains inserted in particular portions of the piece, see if you can spot them. I would like to see more villanelles, the repetition was a tricky, but fun feature to implement. Here is mine, I hope I see yours too.

 

 

They pressed a promise to my palm, those nimble fingers, Miss Elaine,

Teased away the seething tumult, seeding sense to slay decay,

Miss Elaine, you’ve lent a hand that led my hopes away from pain.

 

Time has taught you tenderness, time and time again you’ve slain,

the numbing rein of doubt and angst, your golden touch has saved my days,

They pressed a promise to my palm, those nimble fingers, Miss Elaine.

 

Through every annum we faced as one, your warm embrace was my refrain

Those shallow grooves that trace your palm have funnelled happiness my way

Miss Elaine, you’ve lent a hand that led my hopes away from pain.

 

I stood beside you, at an alter your hands had forged for us to claim.

Forged with trust, your fingers crushed all uncertainty away,

They pressed a promise to my palm, those nimble fingers, Miss Elaine.

 

The seamless mould of interlocking calm, intimately framed

palms, claimed a couple, cupping hearts and slaying greys.

Miss Elaine you’ve lent a hand that led my hopes away from pain.

 

You saw the calluses in my character that taught the world to wield disdain,

and chose the strange approach, you stayed and washed the resin of hapless waves,

They pressed a promise to my palm, those nimble fingers, Miss Elaine,

Miss Elaine you’ve lent a hand that led my hopes away from pain.

 

(c) Saili Katebe

 

Writing 201, Assignment 10: Sonnet – Future

 

 

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The finale to Writing 201 was a long awaited. It brought a lovely end to the 10 days of prompts that fed the poets of WordPress with plenty of entertained, inspiration and creative challenge. The final prompt is one alive with possibility, for the post and for our endeavours as writers and individuals in general, “Future”. The piece is to be written in a classic poetic form, The Sonnet, which was sure to make an appearance in this poetry course in one way or another. I found it a fun challenge throwing the suggested device, Chiasmus, into use. Hopefully it has seasoned the piece with reasonable effect. Enjoy!

 

 

There is madness in my longing, longing in my madness,

there is sweetness when I sleep, I see summits of possibility.

The possibility of summits that sever a stagnant sadness,

the promise that waking up is enough to compose ability.

 

I sleep a while and slip away, in dreams that breach the present,

I reconcile with consciousness to rally a rise to action.

For action to rise, a rally must drive a stake through any presence,

that stifle my any means to feed my drive its traction.

 

I’m humbled by any pain that punctuates my ascension.

The periods of softened will, will soften if I persist.

There is truth inside these dreams that captivate my attention,

a truth that goes to prove that soon my future will exist.

 

I’m in love with possibility, Possibility with love entwined,

A future that found design in the sinews of passions bind.

 

 

 

(c) Saili Katebe

Writing 201, Assignment 9: Found Poetry – Highlands

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The colder touches of reality have teased my time into a nuggets of scarcity. I have neglected my shared words. This post is due, this should have been shared a week ago, leaving my contributions to Writing 201 incomplete. I apologise for the silence emanating from my corner. I am here to present my latest contribution to the challenge and re-establish my voice.

The form of the day was, found poetry. Collection of words, letters, from an existing text to create a new piece. I wasn’t able to submit any of my draft ransom notes, as they could still come in handy in the future, however I made an attempt at creative a piece with a new addition to my poetic arsenal, erasure. The prompt was landscape, and using enumeration.

For this piece, I used a text entitled “Land of Little Rain” by Mary Austin.

 

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I was lost for ways of structuring the verse. I only truly saw it as the piece as I carved it out of the original text. Here is the Verse separate to the rest of the text.

 

This is nature.

There are hills,

squeezed up,

aspiring to be high in a blue haze.

Streaked with water

in the hollows of closed valleys,

levels of steep and heavy,

never quite dry,

deposits of marsh

which open to the wind

in cannon.

This country,

brackish and unwholesome,

maddening,

dribbles soil where the air calms the pale sky.

Earth crys for downpours,

bursts of love.

Writing 201, Assignment 8: Ode – Ode to my Journal

 

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I have broken the flow. As it stands, today, I am a day behind on Writing 201. Here is yesterdays assignment, better late than never.

Another day, another assignment. The ode, today’s (yesterdays) poetic form, is a longer piece with a more intricate structure, and is very much new to me. This assignment was another impressive contributor to my poetic education, I learned a great deal as I dived into the new and wonderful world of odes. I learned words like Strophe, Antisrophe, and Epode. Most importantly, I was fortunate enough to learn what an ode actually is. Needless to say I was , yet again, thrown well out of my comfort zone, and had my creativity and perseverance tested. I attempted to make this as much of an ode as I could, doing my best to follow brief. The prompt for the day was “Drawer” and out of my drawer I drew out, my journal.

Without further ado, I give to you, “Ode To My Journal” utilizing, Apostrophe.

 

You are never very far, you are stowed, to steal my mind,

still but never losing your zeal for holding ink.

We build and fill you wildly with every drop I can find

of the force that feeds my reasoning, soul and paper are linked.

Your have ledges bartered as ledgers for secrets I never told,

You have spattering thoughts bled from a struggle I couldn’t speak,

Of cumbersome weeks spent redefining my own being.

That silent vigil awaiting me, tucked in my tables hold,

is gold, it tips the scales of my mind, when tongue is weak.

You can picture every corner of me, without seeing.

 

For all your patient moments, so humbly poised, listening,

you have never spoken up to steady my ailing truth.

Your bathing in rugged strokes, ink on the page glistening

frustrates me, I’m waiting for something to set you loose.

I’m tired of your reminders, I’m well aware of the falls,

the fire that ate my bridges and landed me in despair.

You only talk in echo’s, you mirror my oldest prose,

summon your own voice, my mind has summoned its walls.

Your silence is suffocating, you need to feed me with air.

I’m tempted to keep you hidden, leaving your pages closed.

 

I’m troubled by burning prose, and unimagined mementos

you are the only aid that can save me wasting the fruit.

I’m furious when I struggle, when troubled by empty thoughts,

I appreciate your patience in all my written pursuits.

I’m a loose cannon of anger when words are hardest to find,

you’re kind and cope with tantrums, that take me out of my mind.

We often defy reason, with mine, your minds weaken the binds,

that tie me to the limitations of logic.

 

(c) Saili Katebe

Writing 201, Assignment 7: Poem Prose – Finger Painting

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Assignment seven, you were a cruel mistress. You came in the form of Poem Prose, and asked me to weave a piece with a prompt absolutely ripe with possibilities, “Fingers”. Alliteration was covered earlier one in Writing 201, and the vowels have now been offered a chance to enjoy their share of repetition. I’m aware that I unconsciously implement alliteration in my pieces. However, I did tried to incorporate assonance in today’s piece.

The piece started life as free write, and I quickly watched my editorial hand fail, swiftly overpowered by emotions of deep attachment. The length and structure of the piece could benefit from a more objective approach, however today, emotions win. Maybe next time. Enjoy!

A mailable palm of properties collect to construct this, Soul. Cradling a life form that teeters along the edge of things, wonders the waves of time, in time to be cradled by earth.

Listen to, the tapping tentacles, digits. These fingers of feeling, fidget. These are my emotional appendages, claiming a canvas wildly. Its through there numerous trails, overlapping in open air, that my peers form a picture of me.

They are alive with activity. Aiming there tips around me, swarming with hues of, everything. Where everything connects, the palm, collects the abstract. You can see the hand I was dealt, its touching. The mandibles whelp, at nothing, at time I am held as a prisoner as they wrap into a fist and forget me.

They stretch themselves in cannon whenever need and impulse impede. Anger has harshened strokes, envy forever emulates. Sorrow undoes me, under the pale shades it presses into existence. Happiness elevates my every steps with forever triumphant ease, I bleed these spectrum’s. Greed grabs at the edges, praying maybe there is more to have, but moments have me wanting more, control.

Its a morbid bag of inching whims that have latched themselves to living. I cant grasp a fuller picture when they roam as wildly as they used to. My nerves are growing steady now, fewer tremors inviting staggered stroke.

They are flailing metronome tips, that the winds of change provoke. They have marked time in memories. These fingertips, with fingerprints of an ambiguous spectrum, have walked the ivory keys of new beginnings and played my ballad, to a time signature they cannot forge.

 

(c) Saili Katebe

Writing 201, Assignment 6: Ballad – Mama, Papa (Heroes)

 

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The weekend served as a short break from the poetry assignments of Writing 201. I haven’t been contorting my imagination in new and interesting ways, and it turns out, I missed it. The week opens with a wonderful new prompt of Heroes. These could be, fictional, real, or even a semi non fictional exaggeration of our individual awesomeness. As much as I would have loved to create an action filled epic of me, as some dragon slaying hero, I had to dedicate my Ballad (Poetic Form of the day) to a couple of real heroes, My parents. The poetic device(s) for today, I cant even pronounce correctly are, Anaphora and Epistrophe. These refer to the repetition of words or phrases at the beginning and ending of multiple lines of verse, respectively. Im unsure as to how well my piece meets the criteria for a ballad, or the poetic devices for that matter, but I’m hoping it says what I hoped it to say. Enjoy!

 

A promise was made under shadows of youth,

“You’ll blossom, Your time will arrive.”

A promise that swam in the heart of the youth,

always knowing their time will arrive.

 

A mother so anxious, while father composed,

they were carving a future for men.

So young in there skin, with childish repose,

unaware where the future would end.

 

His boys would be men, they would carry his name

so he taught them the price of a dream.

He taught them to plough and plant what they need

“without effort you’ll stifle a dream”

 

He guided there steps over teetering paths,

always knowing the fall will arrive.

He tumbled before on his teetering path,

so he knows they will fall but survive.

 

The daughter-less queen, had a heart without end,

it was tender and tended to kin.

to her kings in there youth she taught love without end,

the daughter-less queen cautioned sin.

 

To a king there’s a queen, and the queen that she was,

she projected the traits to adore.

So when youth was undone and they courted at will,

it was genuine love at the door.

 

A promise was made under shadows of youth

“you’ll blossom, your time will arrive.”

A promise that swims in the depth of my heart,

always knowing that my time will arrive.

 

 

 

(c) Saili Katebe

 

Writing 201, Assignment 5: Elegy – Fog

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It feels as though assignment 5 of this course has come around fairly quickly. Fortunately I have had a chance to recover from my exertions during assignment 4. Today’s prompt is “Fog”, as usual the good folks of The Daily Post allow a great deal of creativity with the days theme. The poetic device suggested for today’s assignments is the Metaphor. The form for today will be Elegy.

Elegy
ˈɛlɪdʒi/
noun
1.(in modern literature) a poem of serious reflection, typically a lament for the dead.
synonyms: funeral poem/song, burial hymn, lament, dirge, plaint, requiem, keening; More
2.(in Greek and Latin verse) a poem written in elegiac couplets, as notably by Catullus and Propertius.

My concrete curse has left me here, void of any sweetness.

The sour sun has found me, foolish and full of weakness.

Defeated, rendered, speechless,
suffocating in a spectrum,

Plectrums of vivid voice penetrating my souls septum.

My shroud of sureness withered by effervescence of clarity,

Naivety holds ground on ever lessening gravity.

Greys, of golden days, are relegated to myth.

My misted haze, youth, has settled in an abyss.

(C) Saili Katebe

Writing 201, Assignment 4: Concrete Poem

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Writing 201 has added a dash of heartache to the days feast of poetic prompts, devices and forms. Day Four has requested a Concrete poem, based on the prompt “Animal” utilising enjambment.

I wake up every morning excited to read the days assignment, I look forward to  toying with ideas for the piece in the spare moments the day provides. I found myself lost in panic today, every time I turned to planning my contribution mind froze. Fortunately all things come to an end, the panic ran its course. It faded away to a whispers and gifted me some peace of mind and a slither of time to fumble a piece into existence, a freewrite. Bravo to the folks at The Daily Post, today was truly a challenge. I had no idea how to share the image, I am not the most technologically competent person, so here is a screenshot of the finished product.Today I was truly tested! Enjoy

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Writing 101: Death To Adverbs

Another day another challenge, The title of today’s challenge should be self explanatory. I’m required to write today’s piece without the use of adverbs. So ill be taking to describing a setting of my choice, bringing it to life and into your minds without the use of adverbs. Sounds interesting enough, hope you enjoy it.

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I manage to find myself in the same place every Friday. I walk along the same roads, cutting through the same lanes, to occupy the same seat at the bar. One innocent visit germinated into a habit, a habit now calcified at the tail end of my week as perennial punctuation. The sun dives into a slumber, the orange sky congeals to a black and I rise up into the night.

Peeling open the doors of the watering hall, I saunter in. I salute the friendly faces behind the bar and flash them the  sparkling residues of my wallet, inviting my libations from their safety. “A pint of Thatchers please!” Parting with a few pound coins and the odd penny, I arm myself with a golden potion for the evening.

Cutting across the crowded room, I elbow my way past the same old men. The same old men who commune at the foot of the evening with fist fulls of youth by the chalice and pint glass. They commune in ecstasy, lost in the depth of jubilation. I see them there, rocking atop there experienced feet, from heal to toe, swaying as the hops and fermented barley snake their way into there belly’s, they revel in merriment. “Bring em in Dave!” I hear them say, the call for more ales and brews cannons, adding more fuel to their onslaught of just tonality. The moment resonates in infamy, how can I forget those atonal drones, as the speakers dotted across the room lead the slurring sundry through another man handling of a classic ballad. “Signed sealed delivered, I’m yours!” the boisterous baritones burst into chorus, a truth Stevie Wonder must never learn.

Another plunge into my golden companion and the idle chatter around me is chiselled into a flurry of static, the vacant voices decend to simply another noise drifting into the walls. As I steal another embrace of my dwindling golden trough, the thick smog of sobriety lifts, unveiling the obscurity intoxication arouses. Layers of joyful ambience drape themselves over each other, layer after layer, as each moment inches into the next.

My tongue, serenaded by a mischievous sweetness, teases me into the world of slippery syllables. The mosaic in front of me flowers and feeds my eyes, the canvas of bar stools and tables patches itself into a master piece of merriment.

The night fills the empty spaces around me with familiar faces. I find peace in knowing that I’m never alone in this weekly pilgrimage. The evening, at its apex, draws in such crowds. Waves of wondering souls waltz into the thick of things and paint there stroke against the hungry canvas.

 Merriment has a contagious gait. Together we drink. In unified fashion strangers and kin folk alike surrender to the evenings libation, infecting the willing patrons with this swing of Bon Vivre. This bout of merriment is a peculiar breed, a gloriously, potent tonic that takes to running into the depth of our belly’s, overpowering our minds and our sensibility. Sometimes the flowering fun wilts. It happens and I witness it from time to time, the bubbly motif of the evenings glee strikes a dead note. The merriment grows stale as the labours of libation adopts a bitter taste. The meandering  culprits, with their crooked steps and belly’s swirling with more than there fair share, fracture the fugal fanfare. Before there rebellion infects any one else, they are pealed from the palette, and cast into the night. When the smell of anger betrays the sweet smiles, and inhibition forsaken there tethers, the masterpiece is surrendered to the hands of a cubist, and the mural contorts. 

I perch myself on the easel until my time is spent. After the smiles wane, and the fatigue filters in, I reacquaint my feet with the cold night and retreat to my sanctum of solace. Home calls, through the permeable cloak of assisted merriment, it rings. Until the week has weakened its grips once more, I rediscover equilibrium, I gather my senses and bid auf wiedersehen to my portrait of pleasure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writing 101: Give and Take

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Hello one and all, I’d like to re-emerge from my hiatus with a long overdue apology.

I am sorry.

 I’ve been neglectful of my blogging habits. This has been due to a powerful combination of work, life and procrastination. I’m easing my way back into your homes and hearts by continuing with the blogging U I was doing before my mysterious disappearance, “Writing 101”.

The challenge I tackled for this post is a challenge in contrast. I have to present 2 conflicting, or opposing ideas or elements through the piece. The challenge however has a twist, and the twist is that, for this challenge, I have to present this idea in the form of a dialogue. There is no better way to get to grips with something new than to get your hands dirty. So here it is, my attempt at weave together a dialogue.

Enjoy

 

“Every time!” He said. “Every time were in need of swift action, you waylay our efforts with this, your obsolete moral babble!” Brendan’s bark was a bitter one, abrupt and cloaked in malice. It often was this way, he was a passionate boy, quick to anger, quick to love. He paced around the room intoxicated with agitation. The old floor boards creaked in protest of his frenzy. Each step of his, agitated and brisk, punished the worn fibres of the old carpet.

“You need to calm down Brendan” Said Frederick. “Your pacing is sure to give me a head ache. Quieten your legs and use whatever is left in that little head of yours” His disposition maintained its usual calm and controlled air. His sombre eyes searched the corners of the room. There was a solution hidden in the thick of the confusion, his patience hadn’t failed his pursuit for resolve before, he trusted his temperament.

“How could you possibly consider calm at a time like this?” Brendan said, “If the tables were turned , I would really hope that you’d be out there,” He gestured to the window “Out there doing what needs to be done!” he struggled to ease himself and paced some more.

All the while there was a third body in the room, a body that sat quietly, under the roaring tides of a sibling dispute. Fading under the waves of dissonance.

As the young men vied for justice and resolve, the small room grew smaller by the minute. Fire and Ice, spiralling in abrupt bouts of diction, passion and sensibility caught in mortal conflict. Brendan’s fires, though periodically subdued by Fredrick winds of reason, offered a glimpse of the infernal the young man harboured. Fredrick was determined to douse and simmer  the crescendo of Brendan’s passions, as he had always done.

“This isn’t wisdom Freddie. There is nothing wise about your flap-able courage.” Brendan spat out his words, attacking the empty spaces in the room, “I just want to get my hands on the …”  he stifled his words as the seething ambers of revenge coursed through him. His steps boiled into a heavy march that rattled the delicate little house. He drew himself close to, and turned towards the seated boy with some semblance of calm. “I’ll find whoever did this, and I will make them truly pay!”

The little home their mother kept in tact till the time of her passing was rattling at the hinges. Shaky floor boards, faded walls and wavering spirits.

“He is as much my brother as he is yours, maybe the hatred and fury of your little black heart blinds you!” Fredrick said, now projecting with some power, through his wavering calm “Can’t you see this cuts me just as deep as it does you!” a surprising flicker of passion flashed through his air of  tranquillity. “Your senseless taste for blood will only stir the violence” once again he restored his timbre, that rhythm of reason that kept the peace. “There will be no such foolishness.”

Malachi, the third body in that room, the youngest of the three siblings, remained glued to the seat of his trousers. A normally jovial young man, now wore his severed stare and wounded pride with emptiness. His gaze, a cold and empty gaze, was lost in everything. He stared into and through through the faded walls, his face dotted with bruises, the dark foot prints of a fray tracing his body and face. Every bruise that kissed his skin was a twisted dagger in each brothers flank. As plain as it was to see that the two brothers were nurtured by completely opposite impulses,  there love for there brother was a deep and mutual one. It showed oh so clearly, as is only expected, t2hey only had each other.

Agnes, there mother, was a gentle lady, a sweet, loving mother. A hard working woman, who raised  3 boys and supported them through tireless endeavours.Times had gotten much harder since the love she grew to know betrayed her. Her husband had left her, The father to her sons had vanished without notice. Fredrick and Brendan old enough to remember that moment, had taken with them separate pieces of that broken picture. Brendan, with all his fire, remembered the tears and pain. His mothers wails of pain nourished a seed of passion and fire that grew to serve as his compass. Fredrick, on the other hand, remembered the long hours his mother worked, he remembered her exhaustion and sleepless nights. He wished to put an end to that and relieve her of that burden. After her passing it was Fredrick who kept the peace and sustained what left of there little family.

“All you do is watch things happen, you never take action,” Brendan said, “are these the impotent habits of a learned, educated , man?”, Brendan was working him self up, eagerly teasing another bout of passion from his older.

“There is nothing wise about all three of us rushing at the lions mouth” Fredrick  said “It doesn’t make you a man, to surrender to that thirst of yours,” he added ” That thirst for blood and chaos is a fools lust. You’re only proving to me that you are truly still just a little boy!”

“You really have become him, haven’t you?” Brendan said, drawing a confused glance from his older brother, “Unbelievable! You’re talking just like him. Running away from your responsibilities, just like him. You even look like that dog, smell like that dog. You are barking just like him.” His voice and edge into a menacing growl “You are just like dad Fredrick!” Brendan’s rage was consuming him.

“That’s enough!” Said Fredrick. pressing his lightening white knuckles to the seems of his trousers, flashing a glorious crimson.”I’ll never be that, swine.!” He said, “Who helped keep us all fed, dry and warm after Ma passed? That selfish pig wouldn’t do so much as spit in a trough to quench our thirst”

“That’s it, let it all out.” Brendan said. A sinister air cascaded through his rage, his faint smile found pleasure in breaking his brothers patience.

All the while Malachi, with his melancholy demeanour further drowned him into obscurity, the soul cause of the commotion was speechless and filled with an unknown war.

“Ask the boy!” Fredrick said “Ask the boy what actually happened before you’re madness lands us all in it”

Malachi’s eyes finally wondered out of the depths of bewilderment and back into the room.

“He’s gone!” Malachi finally spoke. “That bastard is gone, finally gone”

His words crashed the tension, his unexpected utterance shattered the bubbling confrontation into shards of curiosity. His older brothers, dazed and confused, searched to piece this new strand of misery into the frame.

“He was there! His face was right there in front of me, repulsive, arrogant and black all the way through” Malachi continued, his brothers were prisoners to the mystery he teased into the coarse air “He mentioned Mum!” He said, Why did he have to mention her?” Malachi was shaking and growing alarmingly agitated  “He had it coming!”

Fredrick finally found his words. His worry and curiosity had set it in thickly “What did you do lad?”

Malachi’s once innocent eyes had finally been sullied, they spoke of malice and grief. His face, war torn and bruised, his garments tattered from unknown fray, spattered in frightening auburn patched. The very disposition that ignited a deep concern had now thrust them into a worry of the darkest sort.

Even Brendan’s lust for commotion was stifled. “You fool!” he said “What have you done?”

“It was that rotten mutt Richard” said  Malachi , through gritted teeth, clenched knuckles and a bubbling soul.  “It was dad!”

The words stripped Fredrick of his balance, he collapsed into the nearest seat, his head fell into his palms, his chest emptied in whimpers of a delicate pain. Brendan’s simply froze, the disbelief had simmered his energies.

Fredrick pleaded with the heavens.”Lord, what has he done!”

The three brothers, stunned by it all sat in silence. Taken aback by the unforeseeable events, sat there, simply sat there.

Unannounced, an urgent knock boomed and echoed through the room. The three faces turned in puzzlement.