Hello to All who are gathered here today in the dVerse Universe, a site of pubtalk and poetry. I am your host, Li(sa,) ready to serve drinks and snacks from the magic cupboard. This Monday is where You and Your Muse are prompted to write a Quadrille. The name for the quadrille form is taken from an 18^th Century dance, but as you may know, it is also dVerse’ poetic form of just 44 words (not counting the title) and includes one word the host provides to you.

String is an attractive, versatile word that can be used as a noun, a verb, or an adjective. It has an onomatopoeic quality to it. It can’t help but evoke its wordly neighbors sing and sting. String suggests a linear grouping that can be applied to a large number of items. For example a creative or performing artist can have a string of hits. Aesthetically beads form a necklace, bracelet, rosary, etc. when put on a string, or are strung (see what I did there with past tense?) Strings make me think of musical instruments and items that can hold shoes together. Food items with strings are made of cheese, teeny tiny slips of deep-fried potatoes, and spaghetti. Strings of words make sentences. Strings of thoughts build concepts. Idiomatic uses of the word include, “string ‘em up,” “stringing someone along,” and so many more.

Ariadne giving Theseus string before he enters the labyrinth

The first excerpt is taken from a memoir poem about place but seems to transcend time:

Excerpt from Allegory by Diane Seuss
…
In the north, all forms stood for themselves.
There was no need to fill them with anything.
Chalices in which wine would be superfluous.
And every moment a form, a string of tongueless bells.
…

Here, internationally famous poet, Gibran, gives sage advice about the union of marriage:

Excerpt from On Marriage by Kahlil Gibran
…
Sing and dance together and be joyous,
but let each one of you be alone,
     Even as the strings of a lute are alone
though they quiver with the same music.
…

The next poem shows great affection for the traveling emigrant’s mother.

the hidden by Truong Tran

known for her cooking the consistent
perfection of spring rolls evenly fried
her secret to brush it
with just a hint of apple juice
to add some color give some flavor
 
she is the mother of five a wife
a widow it is easy to forget
her strength in its subtlety
she keeps it hidden
 
like the smell of apple juice
that reminds me
of my family the eighteen days
we spent on a tanker
 
the sticky metal floors streaked
with the vomit of children crying
a pearl a day she removed
from a string milky white marbles
 
on an army issued blanket
a make-shift playground
that kept what was ours
i would have to be good
no crying no complaining
it was mine to keep it was mine to lose
 
being thirsty that i remember
drinking juice from a can tomato
apple a concoction of both
my mother traded her red jade bracelet
 
for a jar of water
the kind you drank if you had money to buy
if you spoke korean the kind
that was plain without the taste of salt
 
she said uống từ từ—drink it slowly
i was given a third of this precious water
the rest she saved     hid in a suitcase

Then there’s the past tense, strung. A contemporary of Ginsberg, I can see the beads and smell the incense from here:

Excerpt from Blues for Hal Waters, by Bob Kaufman

My head, my secret cranial guitar, strung with myths plucked from
Yesterday’s straits, it’s buried in robes of echoes, my eyes breezeless bags,
lacquered to present a glint . . .
My marble lips, entrance to that cave, where visions renounce renunciation,
Eternity has wet sidewalks, angels are busted for drunk flying.
I only want privacy to create an illusion of me blotted out…

The final example, again using strung, incisively describes a process. I’ll let you decide what process the poet describes.

Vessels by Paisley Rekdal

Shouldn’t it ache, this slit 
into the sweet
and salt mix of  waters 

comprising the mussel, 
its labial meats 
winged open: yellow- 

fleshed, black and gray
around the tough
adductor? It hurts

to imagine it, regardless
of the harvester’s
denials, swiveling 

his knife to make 
the incision: one
dull cyst nicked

from the oyster’s 
mantle — its thread of red 
gland no bigger

than a seed 
of  trout roe — pressed 
inside the tendered

flesh. Both hosts eased
open with a knife 
(as if anything

could be said to be eased
with a knife): 
so that one pearl

after another can be 
harvested, polished, 
added to others 

until a single rope is strung 
on silk. Linked 
by what you think

is pain. Nothing 
could be so roughly 
handled and yet feel 

so little, your pity 
turned into part of this 
production: you 

with your small,
four-chambered heart, 
shyness, hungers, envy: what

could be so precious 
you’d cleave 
another to keep it

close? Imagine 
the weeks it takes to wind 
nacre over the red

seed placed at the other 
heart’s mantle. 
The mussel 

become what no one 
wants to:
vessel, caisson, wounded 

into making us 
the thing we want
to call beautiful.

The source of each poem is found at the poem title links. Learn more about each of these excellent poets by clicking on the link of the poet’s name.

Once again, we have come to the place where you put your proverbial pen to paper and warm it with your poetic spirit's will in words.

• Pen us a poem of precisely 44 words (not counting the title), including some form of the word string (past tense of it is ok also.) 
• Post your Quadrille piece on your blog and link back to this post.
• Place the link to your actual post (not your blog url) on the Mister Linky page.
• Don’t forget to check the little box to accept use/privacy policy.
• Please visit other blogs and comment on their posts!
• Have fun (but only if you want to!)

Sources:
top image quote
Ariadne Giving Some Thread to Theseus to Leave Labyrinth by Pelagio Palagi