Ring, Ring, Ring - again!
Poetry Telephone Game Wrap-up, Part 2
And here it is . . . the second (and final) installment of poems from this year’s game of Poetry Telephone. If you missed part one, you can find it (and learn what the hell Poetry Telephone is) here. Even if you didn’t miss it, you may want to return to that post and re-read the final poem there, since it’s the inspiration for the first poem here.
It was such incredible fun to have these poems trickle into my DMs over the course of the past month or so. I am wowed by the creativity, talent, warmth, and community-mindedness among Substack’s poets. To every one of you who participated, thank you so much! And to those of you here reading, holding space, and sharing your thoughts in the comments, thank you, as well! You all help to make the magic of this place.
Be sure to let the poets below know what stands out to you from their poems! If you would like a prompt to play with, you can find that at the very end of this post. Without further ado . . .
Did You Know?
Draw your borders in finest ink, and pen in what you think you can control, even though you know it is impossible to contain a soul outside of yourself. Are you lonely? Is that why you think only of yourself? You know nothing within or without, so preoccupied are you, so full of doubt, afraid to truly let anyone in, to see that you can't win if you've already lost yourself. And have you tried to tear down the fragile walls, create something that makes you proud? Did you know you can be surrounded in a way that feels spacious, held without restraint? Did you know you can be found?
Osmosis
by Ava Larkspur
My walls are porous. Osmosis changes and ruins me. Hark— if I let you surround me now, before I have properly taken stock of my life, my salt, my whims and wishes, how can I be sure I will not disappear? I will not contain you, but I will contain your fluids, and you mine, and what good is a dilute soul, depleted, uncertain anymore what is right or good or true? Do I not need my own oxygen before I should even dream of helping anyone else? That’s the problem with us all, see, we spend our lives colonizing, looking for what we need in others before knowing our own inventories. I can still remember: when I was young, before I had been tainted, enveloped by another, I knew exactly who I was. Yes! Desperately, I wanted to be held and to be found. To bare my soul. But you and all the others like you—you took what was mine. Each time leaving me doubting, amnesiotic. Asking, who am I? No, love is a myth. We are only amoebae sharing fluids.
the feedback loop
come, be my bee suck the life out of me all I’ve got is yours to take share it with the world, go on fly, spread the word, love is not a myth, it’s the juice that feeds us all, it’s the sap that greens my leaves leaves that drink up the sun that suck the air you exhale the air you breathe, I give don’t you see? even when I bare my limbs I am whole, for you exist for beetles, worms, microbes insects, birds and voles, all merge for the love of life that transcends pronouns that bounds us in the cosmic game of give and take
Circular
by Korie
Loops, cycles, And seasons… All circle back To enclose us In the familiar, Sun rises and sets Ending the day Yet starting it next In brilliance, The moon’s travel Around our planet, Monthly fullness Waning to sliver, Annual holidays Anticipated, Celebrated, Repeating tradition With decoration, Everything’s circular, Even life, beginning With inhalation, Completing In a final exhale.
Even Life.
by Prafulla
"Even life...", she said. She read, Sharply staring at his face, Mumbling incomprehensible incantations. "...I can fix 'em all honey," She exuded confidently, "Can erase all your aberrations". She bore rings, One adorning her septum, one her tongue, She bore art, A trident, on the side of her nape, Multi-sized stars, on her left arm, And a large phoenix spread wings across her upper chest, above her heart "no you can't! no one can! I am beyond a heal Crushed, in shards, in pain, behind this pretentious reel" He imagined yelling back, "Please.. heal me...", he begged instead. It's strange to witness How 'cynicism', 'skepticism' And their brotherly terms Are proud and mocking, when at fence But bend over backwards, When the deal gets real, Nose to nose, close and dense It's strange to witness The might of a plight, How a new believer is born In the darker hours of every night She scooted, came close Took his both palms, rested on her thighs, Her own two palms, long and slender Gloved his face, curtaining his eyes "Breathe.." she breathed Slowly, softly, intimately in his ears "Surrender.." each note mystic Growing denser, drowning " Breathe ... Surrender..." She looped, slower and softer " Breathe ... Surrender..." And he did. Was this real? Or beyond? He could barely guess Was this life? Or after? He could barely guess Could he hear cries? or laughter? He could barely guess. He felt like he was passing Fast and slow, in lines and circles, Fearlessly drowning Into the eye of an abyss Into the eye, of a seeming bliss. The planet earth, the shorter hand of a clock, And his head, Had all completed one full spin, by their respective axes He opened eyes Slowly orienting. Looked down, touched down To feel the ground Looked up, blinked To confirm trees, clouds, and skies He wore no clothes no more And the rings from his fingers were gone His wallet, his cards, his keys His glasses, his pants, even slippers were gone The ground, skies, trees and him Were still there His every piece of things, and her were gone He stood, robbed and naked He laughed, he laughed hard He stood robbed and naked But naked and light He smiled and thought she was right She could fix it all, even life If not the enchanting spell, The robbing was epiphanous Reminder, that it's all ephemeral Realising that it's not her, or her It's not them, it's not the plight, To be truly happy, content, joyous, or not, It was revealing to him, to know, Relieving really, that it's your choice... Always.
Touched Down
by Jodi (Depth Charge: Weekly Poetry)
Touched down, to feel the ground, the Earth’s mighty spin. My choice, my path my wandering eyes have found the trees again. I’ll heal here in the light of choices better made. My life will never be the same.
Embrace This Self-Delivered Oblivion
In the rosy evening light of choices never made, opportunity slips past the horizon Leaving me alone in glowing shadows, no one to blame but my own indecision Ushering in this dark night of the soul, the dreaded abyss from which I’m scared to venture Hiding from the echoing I told you so. Someday I’ll find a new battle cry, but for now I’ll close my eyes Embrace This Self-Delivered Oblivion
Black Hole
Oblivion eyes the ones who cry so, echoing the venture into the abyss of soul night. You think your indecision is to blame. But shadows alone don't form the event horizon. Here's your past, made light.
The Prompt
The final poem in this series, by the incomparably brilliant X. P. Callahan, is a take on a golden shovel. Don’t know what that means? Yeah, neither did, so I looked it up. In a nutshell (I hope I’m getting this right), it’s a poetic form in which the last word of each line is taken (in order) from another poem. In this case, X. P. worked backwards, taking the final word in each line of Julia Wellham (she/her)’s and then building a poem out of them in reverse order.
If you would like a prompt to play with, then I encourage you to try something similar! (I am planning to do so this week, as well.) Choose a poem from this series (or elsewhere, if you prefer), and then craft a poem of your own either in which the last word of each line in the existing poem gets incorporated into the lines of your poem, or in which the last word of each line in your poem is extracted (ideally, in order) from the poem that’s acting as your muse. If you work with this prompt (or write anything else inspired by the poems here), I would love to read what you come up with. Your words make my life brighter.
It's so amazing how these poems began and how they expanded and grew.
A brilliant constellation! Love it.