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a pseudo challenge, but not a competitive one.

So a friend has sent out a 'message in a bottle' - poems that are being sent out into the world with no expectations.

Below are some lines that I liked and somewhat randomly pulled out. The challenge is simply to choose a line and use it in part or in whole in your own piece of work. You could do a short story, a vignette, a poem ... whatever you like. Fell free to send your piece to me to post for you If you wish to post anonymously. It would be great if you gave it a try even if it's not normally your thing.

~~~~

1.) You lie next to me, curled in a dream; I am nothing
more than your skin, light that changes color with your every breath.


2.) She wanted to be the knife-thrower’s wife.


3.) Huddled under an awning out of the rain she gave me a look that meant
she’s ready to ditch him.


4.) We weep for broken wings; for tulips, daylilies and purple flox.


5.) You say you are an orphan; pale eyes in a fuck-if-you-say-so squint.


6.) Soundtrack: Track 1: a slow burn then crescendo. Track 2: a catchy bass line,
quiet, LoUd, quiet. I already know how it ends:


7.) It’s the last call sacrament; your foot slides up my leg,


8.) Let’s go back. To being stripped bare. When the earth was buried in sea;


9.) Second doors become our only chance. [We are born in caves] we make our way to water; crawl until our sins are drowned pure.


10.) It began in woodpiles and with fireflies; that sour taste of homemade
soda opened too early.

the challenge is back

Until after her toddling steps grew graceful -

should have waited for her voice to ring strong.
It began in woodpiles and with fireflies;
that sour taste of homemade soda opened too early -
barely a spritz, but lots of bottles left.

The woodpile dwindles
each piece tossed
onto dimming embers
to flare in great splendor.
They cheer, they praise each new -
spritz, you say? Ha!
Lots of wood, lots of bottles,
it can only get better.

and all the while, the pile is drained
like an eye closing for sleep
until the last laborious burst is a mere firefly
with one blink of its song left
before succumbing to the night,
completely depleted, and still only a child.

your poetry never fails to carry me away, manna...
so great her path so far, with many years to go, and you carry me back to my early ones
i love your mixture of seriousness, sweetness, descriptiveness, and humour

Manna ... I love the images here! It feels like the fire itself is alive, is a child that dances and falls asleep (forgive me if I'm seeing it wrong).

No, I like your interpretations better than my own.

Anonymous, she was a new girl

She wanted to scream into the big big sky

To Lose her virginity bare limbs, feathers

One rough edge and a look that meant

A slow burn, cigarette, a push pin

Crawl until drowned

Huddled like heaven

anonymous

*'She wanted to be the knife-thrower’s wife'

Sometimes love is a cream soda bottle
to the mouth, the taste of blood on the back
of the tongue. He’s long since
traded his knife for an ax. Cut down
the backyard apple tree, stacked it
by her backdoor to burn.
'When it dries', he tells her, 'the scent
will be sweet'. At night she rubs
lotion into the calluses on his palms.
He lies close to her, asks
to hear stories from her day and falls
into a dream of rubber band guns and tadpoles
found in a stream. Outside their open window
a train rumbles by without slowing.

so evocative!
in the beginning, i remembered childhood and the taste of cream soda [though never one of my favourites];
felt tense with the taste of blood on the back [and wondered why/how it would be tasted there]
loved the clarifier coming in the next line and thought of what might cause that...
remembering blood inside my own mouth, but not sure of why/how it got there,
so wondering if we were leading up to a knife thrower who missed his non-mark
then the shift to the ax... and the potential with that!
but suddenly a wholesome environment,
accompanied by devotion
and a literal kind of sweetness
and a returned different kind of devotion,
and seeing/feeling/smelling the wood, the calluses, the lotion
and the end-of-the-day contentment and love, interest, and caring
and suddenly he's a little boy again inside
and the train rumbling outside, you see it, hear it, feel it...
and it creates the bigger contrast between the outside world
and all that goes on inside windows, lives, and minds
thanks for the pleasant trip, cate

thanks lizzy - I had put this aside.

I like how you read it. I also like how you often see things in such a positive manor.

Thank you, Cate. Over the past year, since losing my Mom, my perspective has tended toward the negative, so your comment is very appreciated.

It's almost always impacting to read your poems.
Even if my interpretations aren't exactly how you would have them be, there is always a gain in the reading.
You can make me laugh and make me cry, and it's rare that I'm not impacted.
You just get 'into' situations at a very personal level and then shine a light that frequently comes from an unexpected source and reveals unique facets that are equally unexpected. It seems you may often think I'm just patronizing or "rah rah'ing" you, but that is hardly the case. My appreciation is real, even if the time isn't taken to detail which lines, which thoughts, which terms, particulars of your structure, or the creativity in your topic and perspective, struck me. This time, the time just happened to be available, and giving specific feedback to your poem was prioritized. I still remember your having tea and blueberry something [pie? muffins? the tea itself?] with a friend at a table on the ceiling. You word-sculpt very specific and memorable images. It was a delightful, Alice in Wonderland kind of view... coupled with the sweetness of sharing with a friend. There are other women's and men's poetry here [past or present] who do the same... there are overall differences between you, of course, but when I see your names in a thread beneath a new poem, it's something I always look forward to reading, knowing that in some way it will be enriching.


~ Lizzy

lizzytysh wrote: Even if my interpretations aren't exactly how you would have them be,

if I could choose how they would be, it would be how you would have it be and that you got something out of it the memory of a fizzy drink makes me feel good and that you shared that with me also made me feel good. When I said that I liked how you see things positively, it was that you read that section of the poem the way that you did.

The tea - that was the lovely Violet. We once had blueberry tea and pineapple upside down cake on the ceiling.

right... that was it... blueberry tea and quite fittingly pineapple upside down cake on the ceiling ~ it was such a pleasant dollhouse with grownups image... almost with the white gloves of tea rooms.
oh, yes, i knew what you meant when you said positively, yet how we interpret anything can be impacted by how we're viewing things in general at the time, as well... so it was still good to hear.