See if you can find a poem in text from a news source today. ~Clare L. Martin
“And when we hear
we will learn
about the secret
life of black holes —
We will hear
when a black hole
eats a neutron star–”
Clare is here.
Gravitational waves open ‘a window on the universe,’ scientists say
By Todd Leopold, CNN
Updated 1:28 PM ET, Thu February 11, 2016 | Video Source: CNN
Writing a Found Poem based on Naomi Shihab Nye’s “How Long Peace Takes”
[Exercise created by Debra McDonald Bailey for the 1/30/2016 session of Renegade Writers.] Thank you, Debra for your presentation.
How Long Peace Takes
As long as the horse rides the constellations
As long as the star burns out, neglecting her children
As long as blue thread spins through our bodies, delivering oxygen through blood—and the heart—Do not forget the heart or she will prick you with the sewing needle
As long as the weaver holds her neck in the same position, that many hours—as long as she dreams the fingers of her lover
As long as the grass is above our knees, we will be on the journey
As long as the nurse dawdles after the patient presses the red button, (she clenches her teeth)
As long as the question “Do you desire me?” goes unanswered
As long as the mare lies in the field, licking her dead foal
As long as anyone touches another, any other living being; that singular moment
And it ends.
If every day we come to communion
©2016 Clare L. Martin
In March of last year, I was seen in public in a bathing suit for the first time in almost three decades and today, I am seen in a bathing suit by potentially thousands. This is change and personal freedom from body shame.
In Dec. of 2014, and for three months prior, I was walking with a cane. Out of fear of losing my independence and really, my life, I started a fitness program. I have worked out five to six days a week for over a year now. I currently swim six days a week for up to an hour and 45 minutes. I am now also seeing a nutritionist and eating right for me. I call myself an athlete now. I’ve lost around 40 pounds.
“After The Reception,” 1887, by Douglas Volk (1856-1935)
When she threw the bouquet, she silently cursed. She knew what she was losing— After the stillbirth, she reconstructed herself: bought new clothes, dyed her hair, ran up debts until she was pregnant again. She heard him shredding papers in a dark room. The baby cried. She walked past it. Seven months without a name; or maybe he named it and forgot to tell her. When she was cut open, the doctor left her fertile. He also left tumors. The malignancies imbued her with hyperreal sensitivities. Violets followed her everywhere; and smoke, and wet dirt. She nestled into the laundry hamper and closed the lid.
©2016 Clare L. Martin