At the writing workshop mentioned previously, the leader handed out postcards and asked everyone to take four. He then said, pick one and pass it to the person on your left. The picking and passing was repeated several times. We were then instructed to create something poetic from the images we were left with. I had this photograph of Frida Kahlo.
I later looked at her self-portraits on Google images.
I'll post my poem below.
The prompt is to find a postcard: ANY at all. Maybe even the one that I sent you _refugee_, wasoxygen, thenewgreen, BLOB_CASTLE, ButterflyEffect, insomniasexx, ghostoffuffle, blackbootz, humanodon, eightbitsamurai, mknod, and Complexity - even if you haven't got it yet. or some other postcard or just think about postcards criss-crossing the planet.
or about a snail mail you once got from somewhere . . .
or if you've never had a letter in your life, ask your grandma what letters she has saved. and say any ol' thing you like.
Frida is Waiting As is typical of a writing workshop, people wanted more about the speaker and why those images resonated with her. Like todayswritingprompts, it was a generative workshop so we generated. Further work will perhaps come later. Frida is waiting
Frida is staring: is caring
Is making her pictures
Not smiling
inquiring
creating Frida is painting
Her fears, her fierce
Past pain, past Diego upbraiding
her
Hair is up, braided
Unrest in her eyes. Sixty years later
I am the curator
collector of images up on my wall The pictures start spreading
Where I sit, working
covering spaces, covering all Bright robed
Peasant women
And Frida's self-portraits
Not smiling, not smiling. Whatever is said
About her years later
You'll see her not smiling
And that will say all.
I love this poem! I actually have some Frida postcards too ... Did you know that Rivera made a huge (very famous) mural here at the Detroit Institute of Art? http://www.dia.org/art/rivera-court.aspx It's one of my favorite things because it's so big and overwhelming and if you stare at it, you can see the moving pieces and the people's lives.
A weary traveller I, road rumpled, worn
Creased now with age, since long ere born
Spurred on by love, by longing and desire
Despite discomfort never once to tire Crushed against strangers in the backs of trucks
Huddled under sacking in the rain
Choked by fumes, oily in the bilge of boats
Trudged down every street and every lane And then to fall exhausted at your door
And into silence and then into fear
An agony of waiting your return
My very being readies as you near To reach your hand and open like a flower
To lay still as your hungry eyes devour
To watch your face in flickering candle glow
Smiling salty with sweet slow tears' flow And then to slide, to slumber, 'tween my brothers
Accordion of history of lovers
Before I sleep. A glimpse. A hand. A start.
Dips pen. Tastes ink. A traveller. Shall. Depart.
I think the coolest thing about a post card is that moment you think of someone, throw some words on there and send it. Except the other day my dog got a postcard from the vet, wherein she has to go to her first "Senior dog" checkup. She's old enough now to get a discount at a buffet apparently. In the post:
Magazine, Magazine Magazine
Who is sending it to me? Bill Bill Bill
I can't pay one more and still eat Junk Junk Junk
I am the human garbage transport But hidden between church advertisments and get rich quick schemes and political messages,
peaking out from the rip offs and the overwhelming amount of rain drenched paper, peering
from the myriad of junkets. A picture of a sun drenched beach:
"Thinking of you in Hawaii"
Hell no! It's great. I was a little confused by the title - I thought it might mean that you saw this in a magazine. If you meant "Magazine, magazine, magazine" to be the first line - can you fix that. And the title is "In the Post" - correct? Thank you for contributing. This is a writing prompt thing! Edit: It's better already. Things sometimes look funny.
I thought you were going to post your poem below? I received your postcard, I loved it! Particularly, I like that you customized it. I'm hunting for a postcard now, I think the best bet is that I write my poem about the card I'll be sending you... So you can get a preview poem...
Snail Mail The corrugated paper you bought at the craft store
Rubs rough under my fingers, tracing your words:
Thick black ink painted over an off-white, bumpy braille
Message whose words I can't read, but don't have to. You've hand stitched a border in bright thread,
The same bleeding color of the piece of me
You took with you when you flew south
Three years ago. That's alright;
You can keep it. The stars we used to laugh about were scribbled in
That same dark hand, but they aren't so funny now.
They're jumbled and messy, and we're hysterically
Unable to see the constellations they're said to form. The problem with this last letter of yours is just that:
It was the last.
But your birthday is this month, and I'm sure you'd
Like to visit the piece of you that's still in my desk.
Is the prompt to create something poetic as well? By the way, I left my house in Baltimore a few days ago to be in Detroit for a month (again! this time for flood relief) and so I won't see your postcard for a little bit. Maybe I'll instruct my mom to mail it to me.
The prompt is to the community to create something poetic. The response from the previous prompt was BRILLIANT-- honestly, I am so impressed. If you missed it, check it out. The postcard is a rather provocative nude-from-behind sexually ambiguous figure, so warn your mom.