Manicddaily, a/k/a Karin Gustafson, here on the day before St. Patrick’s to confirm, as Kermit says, that it’s not easy being green.
It’s not only hard for frogs–and sometimes for other animals and plants (look at the poor guys in the photo I took just yesterday!)–what if you are a bagel, a stein of beer, a hardcore addict of temperature control?
A color that shifts from shamrock to pea soup, dollar bill to night field. A shade associated with everything from the freshness of new growth to the mold of old rot; a concept touted both by cranky conservationists and the ravenous briefcases of greed; the badge of vitality–the complexion of sickness (from envy, jealousy, or just plain motion.)
Tomorrow, in New York City at least, nearly everyone will try to instill their lives with a touch of it–adding dye to their food, shamrocks to their lapels, maybe even (among the very rich) emeralds to their tiaras. (St. Patrick’s Day paradegoers tend to substitute boingy green antennae.)
And pretty soon–despite the snow we had in upstate New York yesterday, the countryside (at least in the Northern hemisphere) will wear green too.
So, Poets. Green! Take it where you will. All I ask is that, like every good plant, you take a little stretch in writing your own poem, and then reach out to the warmth and sunlight provided by your fellow poets.
Also, though I am (as is my wont) full of jokes, feel free to examine green for its more serious side. As inspiration for this more serious approach, I urge you to look at one of my favorite passages in the world — Part 6 of Song of Myself by Walt Whitman, where Whitman wonders “what is the grass,” speculating first that it is “the flag of his disposition”, then, the “handkerchief of the Lord,” then, the great societal equalizer, “growing among black folks as among white;” until finally (as is Whitman’s wont), he moves to the transcendental:
“And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.”
Which brings me back to today’s prompt – it’s not easy being green.
But it is hopefully something worth writing about.
Here’s the drill (and, though I could not resist Whitman, I send a special salute to the Irish who have produced so very many wonderful poets and writers.)
- Write a poem that springs from the idea of green, and post it on your webpage.
- Include a link to dverse so that people can follow you back here
- Click the Mr. Linky button below and enter your name and direct URL
- Here is where you will also see others that have linked in their work. Visit them. Like a good plant reach out your leaves! Cast them some sun too–llet them know what worked, what you liked.
- Finally- quick note – all art and photos (other than Kermit) were made or taken by me, Manicddaily, Karin Gustafson, all rights reserved. Thanks!