Good Tuesday to everyone.

Perhaps intuitively, you know where the people have disappeared in this forest located in Germany?

Happy writing gumshoes

 

This began our second week…..

Monday

Week 2 of Bonnie’s intuitive Poetry Writing Exercises

Wow.. I worked Saturday and Sunday and my body aches and my mind is weary… So, forgive me as my endurance for physical exercise is lacking… Enough of my complaints/of and onto the fun…Writing poetry…

Isn’t poetry writing incredibly rewarding? I want so to share what we do for many reasons and I’m certain that you, too. I want to tell someone about the joys of writing, the fabulous release from doing so, and the feelings of accomplishment when we create anything … The writing is us… It comes from our souls and our spirits. It could possibly follow us past death. Our grandchildren children may read what their ancestors wrote and that ancestor might be you and I…

Poetry and lyrics have told history lessons from many pasts. Folk songs are an example of tunes that will go down in history. I remember listening to Joan Baez sing “I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night, alive as you and me …. etc” Joan told a history lesson about human rights that I didn’t understand at 9, but the song stayed with me and later on in life, I understood her lyrics and the reason that she sand about Joe Hill…

So, we too want to leave our descendants with a part of us that speaks how we felt about life, religions, our views on love and so much more…

The reason that we practiced writing without the sense of hearing of deafness was to stretch our abilities to sense the world. We will begin to think and feel like a deaf or blind person. It is not an easy task.

This week Alan and I will post new intuitive photographs and images. You may continue to feel through the image in a different point of understanding, and not our own… Perhaps you will be blind, or perhaps from the point of view of a family member who is disabled. You will wear their shoes, instead of your own.

The lesson is to take any of your past poems, maybe from last week or another, and make that poem better. It will be necessary for you to use a Thesaurus.. My suggestion is, if you’ve not used the Thesaurus, is to highlight the first and last word of each sentence and choose a more descriptive word.

Consider your poem being read by someone. What tone of voice would it be spoken? Would it be in a dialect other than your own?

Is there another and better way to express your poem?

Rule 1 of editing … BIG RULE… don’t get overly attached to the phrases that you have created. They are subject to change for the best and will be discarded..

Rule 2… It can always be improved.

Rule 3… Try to stay in one tense.. Hard for me…Really hard.

If I were to have and image of a raindrop or rainfall many would write about tears. Why? Because, water is emotion and often rain and water brings out the past and sadness.

If I were to post an image of winning the lottery, then many would become anxious, stop, and halt, thus being unable to write about winning, because it creates anxieties of the future. Think about this. Are we conditioned to believe winning is a sin, or unattainable? Does it create a lack of self worth? Does our writing take on that anxiety and do we stop writing because we feel … ? You fill in the blanks…Anxiety can stop the writing process… Fear of the future…

If I took that raindrop in the previous example, how could you write about it in the here and now? Now, take a blindfold or invasion it on your eyes… See that raindrop now, in the moment, tell me what you see and feel. Do not write about the past using emotion, and don’t write about the future in anxiety, but write about that drop, in the now.

What can you write about that 1 drop of water?

Well, how about the weight, the size, the color, the illumination, the transparency, and what do you see? Look inside it as if it were a glass globe. Can you see the future, can you see your contentment, or dissatisfaction? Can you say, I am … in the present, I feel no sadness, or anxiety, I, like the drop, am one, and we, are in the now for this moment? And, for right now, all is good, and as it should be… Can you become one with the person, place or thing which is the object of your writing? I ask again… Can you become one with it’s vibrations, it’s color, its beauty, its place in our environment and it’s purpose…? Water fills all living things doesn’t it? What can that 1 drop do for 1 moment in the now…?

This is where your breathing exercises from day 1, help with writing in the present tense…

As I said a few paragraphs ago, our exercise is to take 1 or 2 poems this week that you have previously written and improve on them… Share them on the threads. If you post them separately with an image, then make a reference to the fact that you are improving on them and want to share…

Ultimately, at the end of the intuitive lessons, my wish is that we would find a poetry contest that is unfamiliar territory and enter our new revised work.

So, this is week 2… and it will be more reflective. It will be more intuitive as when you edit your work, you are going to sense what needs to change and you will have better clarity…

Once again I thank Alan for allowing me to facilitate this group, and I want to thank all of you for supporting me, and thank you for going on the journey with me… i am learning, as well…

The poem that I will revise is “Manifesting Sophia.” This is the initial poem 2014

 

Standing next to The Rivers of Babylon we prayed.

I told you to whisper, Sophia, and there on the banks edge,

She will breathe.

In your loneliness, you will cry,

In solitude, you shall find her.

Standing, by the fresh spring waters,

Her voice, will arise new,

Believe, child. 

Unless you know, she won’t come.

She cannot sojourn the dead,

Not, without your certain, hope. 

Only, in the voice filled with life,

Shall she manifest.

The lifeless carry no spirit. 

The initiator needs the spark.

Speak, and Sophia will sing.

Listen, and her song, you will hear.

Smile when you know.

She came because you asked. 

. 

The link on WordPress is:

https://wordpress.com/stats/day/bonniegjennings.wordpress.com

FB link

https://www.facebook.com/groups/313544755508623/

I’ve entered it in contest and I had thought that my poem was deep and smoothly enjoyable.

I found out that the majority of people didn’t understand the poem and were way away from the meaning and content.

Sophia is a shared meaning for The Holy Spirit and is also thought of as Wisdom of God… She is feminine and all-knowing. She moves like the wind and is silent…

 

Revised poem: 2016

Manifesting Sophia

Anchored to the sands of The River of Babylon, I implored 

There on the river banks, she whispered her name, Sophia 

“Summon her. She will breathe.”

In your loneliness, when you cry, hear.

In solitude, listen, sense Sophia, you will know her.

Tinkling of fresh spring waters speaks of her

In the golden of butterfly wings her glory is witnessed 

Her voice is an aria of vibrational beautiful moments 

She will arise in your beliefs 

Believe child. 

She visits not the naysayers 

She can not sojourn the dead. 

The lifeless carry no spirit 

A child shall observer her silhouette. 

A waif has hopes.

The sparks of fidelity are ignition.

Speak, Sophia will sing

Laugh, she came because you asked 

 

©2016 Bonnie Jennings. All Rights Reserved

 

And this next group is my collection of writing with this awesome group on FB last week..

A Poet’s Haven hosted by Alan Boles

https://www.facebook.com/groups/313544755508623/

 

Forecast of storms this afternoon

From my porch, the grayness hung

There seemed a voice inside me

Calling me. Yearning. me, to come

Normally, i’d never have ventured

But, the summons, urgent, demanding

Strides mad towards the beach, flying

Watched the sky, absolutely foreboding

Was it the beauty, the urges wanted to see

So, watching from the pier, so silent

But, the air was electric and defiant

Feeling the forces drawing sides

The wind from the South stanced

As the wind from the North danced

And around their winds blew wildly

I watched their war, an atmospheric battle

Until the time came to go

A typhoon swept sand to and fro

Hiding my face, leaving so

The battle of the air

Continues so

---

 

Purple passions, lustful lilacs and moonbeams

A haunting forest she sings to the Moon dreams

A lyre in hand, her voice like nightingales chants

Enters the forest of you’ll never return to dance

Alone, amongst her fantasies

---

Of elves and fairies and cats that sneeze

And should a prince enter her woods

A test he’ll endure to prove, he a king

And perhaps she’ll love, if he can sing

---

A July Afternoon

A cool breeze passes, through the window

The curtain sways, as if, I am visited

The hairs on my arms arise

The are no sounds anywhere, no surprise

A deathly humid heaviness came through

I know, I feel it ~ It’s lingering on my bed

It sat down. the covers slightly move,

In the heat, the chill, made its presence swoon

For what reason, I don’t know, but it’s not living

And, moments later, with a sucking vacuum

The chill left, with the curtain following from room

And that was one hot sultry July afternoon

---

 

Hell

Hellish wood, previously burned.

The smell of soot and damp mold and clay

The floors of this dungeon of ill dismay

And time passed, no daily knotts etched

Alone in a cell, no roomates, no one to tell

How long has it been? Oh God, forlorn

Have I existed, my life of dread

Laying upon the cold clay floor

Rats, bugs, lice and hell, there’s more

For what reason, do I continue?

God of Heaven, surely you remember

I who had a life, once ago

Was there a lesson, I forgot to know

I can’t remember, my beard is silver

I had a wife and little children

Should you fetch me and slice my head

And serve it to the swine before bed

T’would be better than this lonesome life

The pigs at least would thank my flesh

And God please humbly I ask again

Take me away, I’ve paid for my sins

~ What? What’s that I hear?

Boots or shoes or clanging chains?

It is the hangman, I do think

Shining his light for my soul to take

But, goodbye cell, burned soot and mold.

I’m leaving hell this eve, I won’t be sold…

---

 

 

©2016 Bonnie Jennings. All Rights Reserved..