Muse Monday 9- Enigma Writing

I have begun following a site called Read Write Prompt -




This weeks photo prompt is by Sepleture {Mood Disorder}

I felt it was a great photo for this weeks Muse Monday theme entry, and for their 'Get Your Poem On' over at RWP...


read write prompt #111: broken chair
by Nathan Moore

What is going on in this photo? Why is the figure staring at a three-legged chair? Why is the figure wearing a hood? What is keeping the chair from falling down?

This image appeals to me because of its enigmatic nature. In terms of writing, you might want to stay with the questions the scene elicits, linger over them, hesitate before rushing to an answer.

Or, as is often the case when faced with an enigma, you might start to symbolize. Is this is picture about facing a problem, contemplating mystery, the incomplete and frail work of human labor in the face of nature’s grandeur?

Immaterial Portal by E Stelling

‘Planets Aligning in the next 24 Hours’ read the morning monitor headlines.
Feeling uneasy as he read all five computer screens lined up around the old make shift classroom, Less could see corporate media was still using dog-whistle politics to guide the underground urban decay to the surface.
“Damn Incorporeal wars; it is a good day to go out and rummage portal landings” he screamed at the screens.
Quickly gathering only a few things he might need, Less would dress light, so he could travel by foot, and move as fast as possible.
He had to return before sunset; it was just the way of life on the top world.
With no present danger of too much sun radiation he knew exercise would be good for his recent mercurial twists of temperaments.
Seven hours of gravitational pull, and two planets blocking the only real threat to his getting out of that damn bunker helped him forget the disembodied revolutions.
Face it anyone left here to begin with was a planetary vagabond.
Less pulled back the black covering from the only window he had not boarded up.
The renaissance clouds he saw spread across the sky was a good sign that the water supply might be renewed for upcoming months.
Wells were dry and he would not risk underground wilderness riders tunneling where he might choose to dig.
Less closed back up the window and headed out the back tunnel entrance.
After two hours of walking the desolate dry grounds he decided to take a few minutes and head up to a mountain plateau just over the horizon.
Often he would find uncovered object left from wild howling winds he heard deep into the night; it also allowed him to see for miles and see if there were any signs of movement from other top dwellers.
His water was almost gone in the canteen, so he had to return soon and set up collectors for the potential rain clouds moving in by the minute.
The sky reminded him of pictures his father used to collect.
Romanticism they would call it.
Painters that believed in socialism and a world of change.
Just as he reached the top he saw an object sitting alone.
Stunned he decided it was what he believed to be a dolmen.
Had a portal opened up in this very spot?
Nothing of this material remained on his planet for ages.
Ancients talked of its existence, but no books existed with pictures.
Plastic objects were the propaganda of the corporate legacies.
The material was as if it was made yesterday.
Less feel to his knees.
What emotions he felt at this moment.
A dolmen appearing in this very spot, and how could this be?
What was he to do?
Time was running out, and the sky was speaking speed to him.
He had only moments to decide what sign was being revealed to him.

Now I have to take this and turn it into a prose somehow. Due Thursday, so I will re-post by then!

28/1/2010- Here is one I found in my archives; it could fit as a short modern...

Dreams
So real
Fingers
Could
Never
Change
Strangers
Pass
Years
Matter
Time
Songs
Unsung
Hearts
Beat
Rhythm
Skips
Undone
Secrets
Dismantle
Dreams

© E Stelling, 2009


This is below is the piece I Dismantle'd from the Sci-Fi piece I attempted last week...

Planets Aligning, twenty four hours seemed like years
Morning monitor reads like corporate media menu
Old dog-whistle politics, guiding people astray
They head to desolate underground, urban decay
Even on good days, portal remain refuge awaits
In spite of sun radiation, needed exercise, dress light
Hidden bunkers, hunger, disembodied revolution
Clouded out by renaissance sky, revealing beauty
Hopeful, filled canteens, desolate ground cover green
Future, mountain plateau just over the horizon
Uncovered objects left, wild howling winds lead astray
Signs of movement from other top dwellers?
Collectors, often scary, fleeting nightmare play
Damn incorporeal wars, blasting, effects everlasting
Stunned one might be, set upon the knees as if to pray
Dolmen, ancient existence, materials no longer remains
Emotions, propaganda prompted, times mistakes…

E Stelling, 2010- (I feel this piece is unfinished, need more time to re-arrange)

Please feel free to leave comments on how you feel any of these pieces worked for you...Thanks!

FSO- Sounds In Your Town

"There are two versions of this theme. First, the simple one. We’ve been treated many different aspects of what your town looks like. Treat another sense: what makes your town sound like your town? Traffic? Kids playing? Birds? That annoying dog next door? Fill our senses with a different perspective.

The complicated version (and I apologize for not giving you more lead-time on this) I have heard called a ‘blind hike’. Find a trusty partner. Wear a blindfold (no peeking!). Get your camera, and with the help of your partner, wander around noticing what you hear. Take pictures (no peeking!) while you’re at it. It’s quite fun to do, and the photos will surprise you. Enjoy!" - NanU

Just returning from my two week trip to see my son, I have had little time to run around town and take the photos that would make this a good shoot out. However I decided to get a few of my open mic friends to help me in my dilemma, so here goes...

Can you hear these glasses clinking together?

Can you hear Tim playing the spoons?

 Can you hear Rich's harmonica?

This one is funny, but sad all in one shot. I was looking out a friends window and this is what I heard...

Here is a closer listen to the gnawing of teeth on the corner of a picnic table...I like wood as any chef who loves to smoke a good piece of meat, but this is taking it a bit too far...

I hear the sizzling of my dinner food in the skillet, so gotta go!

Thanks for stopping buy and listening to my town of New Jersey, and you can go to Mr. MckLinky, and check out the other members sites!

Southern Flavor

[Photo taken above and below is property of E Stelling, author of this website]

I have been submitting my poetry into literary magazines, and got a response from a local publication. They published this poem yesterday. I cannot scan the publication, but here is how the page looks. I got a whole page!

The poetry of Elizabeth Stelling caught my attention immediately.

She is a poet, but not the poetry that I’m familiar with.  Elizabeth makes food taste better… she cooks with her spoken words.  Her voice, full of the inflections that say “The South” churn like butter from sweet cream to my ears.  I needed to hear more.

I hoped that Wild River Review would be a good forum for her unique format. It is the written word… and the spoken one too.

“I experiment with Flavors”… Elizabeth Stelling, hails from Texas where she grew up, but after traveling and now in New Jersey works on the road as a personal chef, and restaurant consultant. Also currently teaching culinary classes, she still runs her small catering and staffing business, and shares her love of cooking with local, organic, healthy, and natural ingredients. Elizabeth is a member of Slow Food and the American Wine Society, Princeton, New Jersey. She has published written works of poetry and media pieces, as well as hosts Cultural Art Expression- Open Mic

.

Thank you Elizabeth for sending us into an aural state of bliss!

Corn Bread & Beans

Morning fires warmed our small feet
Only to be numbed by the cold that
Lurked in the wooden floors
In the feelings meeting us in our living room…
Hunger pulled us… one-two-three…
Into the kitchen
Watching our mother- steam rising- boiling water
Her shaking hands
Preparing poverties feast
Children’s piercing eyes… one-two-three
Hands pulling, faint cries of wanting;
A little taste, a little recognition…
Dizziness brought on by stirring
Anger- hitting the spoon on the pan
Sometime us…
Tears brought on by onions
A father walking out the door…
Life's dish of hard lessons
A burning after taste of cruelty…
Left us… one- two- three- four
With a craving for corn bread and beans…

© E Stelling, 1976

I wrote this poem when I was around fifteen, and have revised it three or four times, but I still fall back on my original version.

Muse Monday 8

THE BATTLE-FIELD

BY

Emily Dickinson

They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars,

Like petals from a rose,

When suddenly across the June

A wind with fingers goes.

They perished in the seamless grass, --

No eye could find the place;

But God on his repealless list

Can summon every face.

Study of Princeton Battlefield

Winters

Revolutionary forces

Move across time;

Across fields, where

Young, old fall forward

With not thought;

Covering mounds,

Dirt, ash to ash

Ending,

Bringing

Beginning

Soulful, filled memory

Marked places

Monumental stands

Reminding

Hearts who return

Hearts finding solace

Who walk; among

What cannot be changed; Spirits

Blown by winds

Their whispers

Heard

Felt
Riding upon

The rustling of green grass, and sometimes

Blanketed by sun

Blanketed by snow

Buried, beneath
All time…

© E Stelling, 2010

This is a place I visit often. A place of solace for my writing. I learned on my fifth visit that across the field and behind what you see in my photo was one of Washington's greatest defense against enemy troops*. Behind the monument is the graves of the unknown soldiers. There are no markers, only the plaque that is placed at the rear of the beautiful site. I have mixed emotions when I come visit.

*The Battle of Princeton (January 3, 1777) was a battle in which General Washington's revolutionary forces defeated British forces near Princeton, New Jersey.

On the night of January 2, General George Washington, Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army, repulsed a British attack at the Battle of the Assunpink Creek. That night, he evacuated his position and went to attack the British garrison at Princeton. General Hugh Mercer, of the Continental Army, clashed with two Regiments under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Charles Mawhood of the British Army. Mercer and his troops were overrun and Washington sent some Militia under General John Cadwalader to help him. The Militia, on seeing the flight of Mercer's men, also began to flee. Washington rode up with reinforcements and rallied the fleeing Militia. He led the attack on Mawhood's troops, driving them back. Mawhood gave the order to retreat and most of the troops tried to flee to Cornwallis in Trenton.

In Princeton itself, General John Sullivan forced some British troops who had taken refuge in Nassau Hall to surrender, ending the battle. Washington moved his army to Morristown, and with their third defeat in 10 days, the British evacuated New Jersey. With the victory at Princeton, morale rose in the ranks and more men began to enlist in the army. The battle was the last major action of Washington's winter New Jersey Campaign.

The site of the battle is now Princeton Battlefield State Park (information from Princeton files, and State Park site).