In an ongoing series, the editors, former contributors, and readers of Eclectica have been invited to write a poem containing four pre-chosen words. The words for this issue are frontier, pool, rhubarb, and pulse. Below are the resulting selected poems.
If you would like to participate in the next special poetry assignment, please check the Eclectica Home Page after February 1, 2005, for the new four-word list.
(Click on the title to view the whole poem!)
Two Word Poems
The trail, a dusty scar cut into flanks
of lupine verging blue to purple, scarlet-
bugles, and Indian paintbrush
We imagined scenarios in which our fathers
Would be slain in their suits by flocks
Of wild geese
Her once endearing dumbness,
Bird Brained Bantam, now seemed twisted
The pulse of a dimly lit
bulb ticks through the night,
insisting in a pool of silence,
Here I am! See me?
Roots drive down,
subsonic micro-thunder from the race to food.
No one ever writes an ode to Taos
German women preparing rhubarb kuchen,
swimming pools set in purple-pansied yards,
O's rolling from old farmers' mouths.
The Woman in a Painting
When I step naked
onto the porch, my pulse
is a lone musician
of Normal: a mirror cinquain
measured around the pool.
Deborah P. Kolodji
The pond, a dark fathomless pool,
pulls the house into its wild
David C. Kopaska-Merkel
beyond the pulse
of carnival music, past the merry go round's
merry go round, past the tilt a whirl's tilt and whirl
cat curls on the sill, white
with black symbols.
Years after, the rhubarb still
blocks the driveway.
The Nature of Things
my grandfather taught me
to question the restraint of frontiers
that hindered spontaneity
Barbara De Franceschi
their pulse will wake again
each early morning
to a stone bell
Dry Summer in the
The season should have ended a month ago,
the fire crews been on their way south
to protect expensive California homes.