Tweetspeak Poetry

Photo Play: Air, Breath, Wind

By 32 Comments

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.” —Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Pausing a moment during the day to slow down and focus on your breath is considered a simple way to relieve stress and connect the body and mind. Can you remember the last time you took advantage of the gift of a deep, cleansing breath? It’s good for the soul.

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a poem from Glynn we enjoyed:

A shape defined
by the contours
of what resists it,
what it resists.

Unseen, it smooths
and roughens
in simultaneous swirls,
depending upon its mood.

Wraps itself before
dissipating, disappearing,
its shape defined
by absence, loss
before arrival.

—by Glynn Young

PHOTO PLAY:  The wind that blows through the trees and plays in your hair is like the breath of earth. Your loyal pet slumbering nearby breathes easy in a net of safety and security. Consider how many things around you breathe. Choose something (or someone) and snap a photo.

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NOTE TO POETS: Looking for your Monday poetry prompt? On Photo Play weeks, it’s right here. Find inspiration from the photo in the post and respond with a poem. Leave your poem in the comment box. We’ll be reading. :)

Photo by Sebastien Panouille. Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Heather Eure.

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Sometimes we feature your poems in Every Day Poems, with your permission of course. Thanks for writing with us!

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Heather Eure
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Comments

  1. Donna Z Falcone says

    Glynn, this is really great. There is a lot of power in what we cannot see, isn’t there? That’s what I feel throughout this poem.

    I wanted to share a photo that I saw on Twitter today – here is the link. I DID NOT TAKE THIS PHOTO! 😀

    https://pbs.twimg.com/media/B_qm1j0WcAA660H.jpg:large

    It’s called Frosty Lighthouse, by Brian Hawkins.

    My imagination was caught up… It struck me how the wind met and moved the water and over time the cold set it like stone. I wondered how long the process took and how the icicle knew to stop growing? My mind went to “I wonder what the icicle’s last thoughts were as it came to a complete stop, fluttering and flapping like immovable laundry on the line. But then I read Glynn’s poem and wondered what the wind felt as the water stood in it’s way… and who resisted whom? Again, I didn’t take this photo but I wanted to share it with you all… it just seems to fit so well here.

    Reply

  2. Bethany R. says

    Why Am I Starting to Smile?

    Remember that time
    after raspberry pancakes
    when Mom declared
    in our olive-green kitchen: Today,
    I’ll teach you to swing.

    She smiled as she hollered:
    Just gotta lean
    into it.
    My butterfly rain boots
    wriggled through air
    and went nowhere
    on that tired, steel swing set

    Ever the teacher
    she hoisted her own
    thick hips
    into a black smile next to me

    Mom pumped sky
    in her stonewashed jeans

    Her grown-up body
    heaved all the way back
    whipping her mess
    of brown hair above
    the bar of rust,
    when her seat suddenly

    snapped.

    She gripped the old chains–
    stuck the landing.

    Remember our laugh?
    That sudden air gush,
    lung-crush of hilarity
    that roared from our cheeks–while
    everyone else held their
    breath?

    Reply

  5. Elizabeth W. Marshall says

    On Any Given Tuesday

    At an altar, before which I stand
    I spy
    Him
    Dressed in holy, royal blue velvet robe
    Worthy of a king

    I missed a breath
    Had it stolen by his handsomeness
    Skipped a few heartbeats too, he took a piece of me
    Halted, haunted

    I am frozen, beauty chills me head to toe
    Each dirty plate will have to wait
    I am dead, stopped in my tracks, sacred sighting of This bird
    Has words to share with me
    My eyelids can not close
    Draw the shades to my hazel eyes
    And I shall fail to see

    Winged blue bunting on the cusp of Spring
    Breathless
    I stand still and
    Numbed by radiant sapphire blue
    I rest
    Soak in this respite from the soap and dirt
    Indigo bunting leaves,
    In a wild blue streak

    I bow
    Down, in gratitude
    Head hung low at the altar of a dirty sink
    Praying for his return

    When he comes in search of what I have

    I will ask him
    Did you even notice me

    What do we do
    When given half a second
    Chance

    On any given Tuesday

    Reply

    • Richard Maxson says

      Elizabeth, Sacred is THE word for this poem. There is something about a longer poem that, in the end, we discover is about only a moment in time. Suddenly, on reaching the end, we are aware of how long a moment can be when we are caught by something precious. I loved the setting of this and the slow beautiful language. Beautiful!

      Reply

  7. Robbie Pruitt says

    The Air of You

    Your lips
    Pressed against mine
    Frozen. Sublime.
    In the cold mist of snow
    Condensation rests
    At the end of breaths
    Heavy. Softly. Tenderly. Slow.
    In rhythm and in time
    Breathing your air as mine

    © March 10, 2015, Robbie Pruitt

    Reply

  8. Elizabeth Marshall says

    Old Dog Breath

    I count
    You live
    We are
    In the middle of the end

    I catch
    You blow
    We are
    Tangled up in death’s warm unwanted undertow

    I wait
    You slow
    We are
    At a crossroads

    I’ll grieve
    Your last

    And if you ask
    I’ll leave your side

    I count your smokey old dog breathes
    We cannot cheat the claws of death

    But I will hold your butter yellow paw
    You and me
    We shall make it holy

    And we shall rest in peace

    Reply

  10. Richard Maxson says

    Breath Like A Rim Shot

    Death is an exhale. My sobs
    drawn out until
    my mouth opened in a silence, and still
    the air left me
    the air left me
    the air left me

    wanting to follow you?

    Life is a rim shot
    in a blue room.

    When the bass stops
    and the singer spent,
    for a beat breathes, and the strings
    are left alone, the tone, the one
    thing moving in the smoke.

    Catch it !

    the last space
    to miss you forever.

    Reply

  13. Elizabeth Marshall says

    The Nor’easter

    I stand in awe
    Of the old salts, the shrimper and the clammer
    The pirates
    And the lighthouse keeper
    A breed of mankind
    Bearing uncanny gifts
    Brave and wild and free
    Pitted against the sea
    Reading the wind direction like a blindman reads his news, in braille

    I hear the storm forecasted
    Batten down the hatches
    Close my eyes and hope
    And pray

    That the wind will have mercy on me
    leave my life unscathed
    Rescue me from a watery grave

    After the calm
    After the storm

    The old salts celebrate the mighty wind
    Mercurial, rising up to fight the raging sea
    While I learn to read the tea leaves
    And decode the old wives’ tales

    Of what comes written on the wind
    Salty, wind-blown
    Poetry
    Given to the bravest ones
    Who live beside the sea

    Reply

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