SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) *

cold rain
icicles dagger like
prickling my skin
piercing my veins
an endless trauma
enveloping my heart
saturating my soul
a merciless scourge
winter torment

Dawn Whitehand abstract art SAD Seasonal Affective Disorder

Wax on Handmade paper

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Dawn Whitehand 2014

*SAD – Seasonal Affectice Disorder is often associatd with Winter : here is a research starting point from Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seasonal_affective_disorder

No More Tomorrows

imminent death

I know the hour
the exact minute

nervously I anticipate
my heart pounding

awaiting

the final glimpse of red
the final waft of warmth
the final tinkle of laughter
the final tang of spice
the final caress of you

my final gasp of breath

Pastels on Handmade Paper

Pastels on Handmade Paper

© Dawn Whitehand 2014

10 Poems That Look Like What They Mean

Dawn Whitehand:

I love the idea of this technique – ‘concrete poetry’ …. i think I’ll give it a try!!

Originally posted on Qwiklit:

By May Huang

Poets employ various means to get their message across in their poems, ranging from rhyme scheme to alliteration. However, poetic meaning can also be translated visually through a form termed “concrete poetry;” indeed, numerous poets experiment with line breaks and typography to present their work in a way that ‘looks’ the way it is supposed to ‘mean.’ Here are 10 poems whose meanings lie in their appearances:

1) George Herbert – Easter Wings

[EasterWingsa.bmp]

Published in 1633, George Herbert’s Easter Wings is the oldest concrete poem in this list. A poem about flight in its metaphorical sense, Easter Wings aptly takes the form of a pair of wings (the likeness is even more remarkable if you rotate the poem 90 degrees to the right).

2) 40-Love by Roger McGough

The English poet Roger McGough sends readers’ eyes travelling to and fro the way a tennis ball would across…

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On Growing Old…

exhaustion seeps in
weary bones consumed
wasted muscles lax
forgotten memories continue foraging
scratching the very marrow of my soul
twilight years beckon
the applause stops
lifes curtains close
the cycle begins again
beckoning an empty stage of tomorrows tears

Pastel on Handmade Paper

Pastel on Handmade Paper

© Dawn Whitehand 2014

Way Too Busy to Write Poetry :-(

Some regular readers may know that besides being a ‘poet’ i am also a visual artist, and maintain another blog about those shenanigans here: https://dawnwhitehand.wordpress.com/

But to address the point of this post …. I am sssooo behind on poetry posts because my visual arts life has exploded somewhat in the past couple of months & I have a multitude of projects that have occupied every breathing moment (besides the head cold I got in between) of my creative life …. these projects include:

Mums & Bubs

Birthday Partys

Coffee Cups

Book Launch

ContainArt

Birds Beasts and Butterflys Group Exhibition – an upcoming event, I don’t have a post about this as yet

This may not seem like much on paper but these projects have occupied my already chaotic head to the point of implosion – but on the bright side I guess that will make for some good poetry fodder in the coming months….

(the only thing that has kept me sane -from a ‘writing’ perspective – is putting pen to paper when writing Artists Statements)

So, don’t despair, I have not exited ‘stage left’…. i am just temporarily preoccupied…. or something along those lines :-)

And just to prove it, here’s a drawing…I’ll write a poem to go with it soon :-)

Dawn Whitehand - Abstract Art

© Dawn Whitehand 2014

 

The Monster under the Bed is in my Head

dark and deceptive
it (I) emerges at night
parting the heavy curtains
of my Mahogany dreams
unwelcomely hovering
cumbersomely weightless
a floating scourge
pecking at my (own) soul
relentless in its (my) pain
too elusive to grasp
visiting incessantly
since childhood

Fine Liner on Handmade Paper

Fine Liner on Handmade Paper

© Dawn Whitehand 2014

Futile Tomorrows

It is cold here
and damp

overcast

silently
my mind
screams

peering in vain

gulping
dark air
choking in
gloominess

the bare wood
scratches my skin

pointlessly
reminding me I’m alive

cascading tree branches
hover

enveloping tentacle-like
cradling hope and dreams

yet strangling
any attempt
of ever reaching them

never…

Fine liner and pastel on Handmade paper

Fine Liner and Pastel on Handmade Paper

© Dawn Whitehand 2014

The above poem and drawing is in response to fellow wordpress blogger Leanne Cole‘s post “A Photo that Inspires” – Leanne is a photographer and occasionally posts a photo she asks writers to respond to… I have participated in her photo response posts previously here and here.

You can check Leannes blog out and the original image that inspired my poem and drawing, and other poets/writers who have responded, here.

‘The Applicant’ by Sylvia Plath

Dawn Whitehand:

Today, as part of expanding the scope of this blog, I wanted to share a Sylvia Plath poem – I chose ‘The Applicant’ because it is a great poem and really strikes a chord with me. It explores concepts of meaning in a patriarchal, consumer society from a feminist perspective – which is a favourite theme of mine!!

While searching the web for a version of the poem so that I could copy & paste it into my blog (as opposed to typing it all out) I found this blog post by a fellow WordPressor with a great analysis and a video of Plath reading the poem – so here it is reblogged with a dawing from me :-)

Oil Pastel on Handmade Paper

Oil Pastel on Handmade Paper

 

Originally posted on A poem for every day:

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something’s missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit—-

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they’ll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have…

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