Welcome to our W3 Poetry Prompt, which goes live on Wednesdays at The Skeptic’s Kaddish.
You may click here for a fuller explanation of W3; but here’s the ‘tldr’ version:
The main ingredient of W3 is a weekly poem written by a Poet of the Week (PoW), which participants respond to in verse.
The second ingredient is a writing guideline (or two) provided by the PoW. Guidelines may include, but are not limited to: word counts, poetic forms, inclusion of specific words, and use of particular poetic devices.
After four days, when the prompt closes, the PoW shall select one participant’s poem as the W3 prompt for the following week, and its author becomes the next PoW.
Simple enough, right?
Okie dokie ~ Let’s do this thing!
I. The prompt poem:
‘Looking at the Flavor of Color’ by Murisopsis
I see deep greens in azure streams Murky depths where the light is low My prism eyes detect the separate dreams I feel the colors of the swirling flow Murky depths where the light is low Rough red and saffron through my hands I feel the colors of the swirling flow My crimson blood released to foreign lands Rough red and saffron through my hands I taste the tang of purple, indigo and drink it in My crimson blood released to foreign lands Running carmine and cobalt off lip and chin I taste the tang of purple, indigo and drink it in My mouth is not big enough to contain the swell Running carmine and cobalt off lip and chin I hear humming wave and chiming bell My mouth is not big enough to contain the swell Bass brown countered by soprano buzz of blues I hear humming wave and chiming bell My soul sings in counterpoint in forest green hues Bass brown countered by soprano buzz of blues Inviting me to become the water’s bride My soul sings in counterpoint in forest green hues I want to be washed, soaked in color, tie-dyed Inviting me to become the water’s bride I pray for more than black and white I want to be washed, soaked in color, tie-dyed No artist’s palette can contain the sight I pray for more than black and white My thoughts are drenched in grue and bleen No artist’s palette can contain the sight Hope is water wings glowing octarine* My thoughts are drenched in grue and bleen** My dreams float above the water line Hope is water wings glowing octarine Caught on fire and drowned in brine My dreams float above the water line I see deep greens in azure streams Caught on fire and drowned in brine My prism eyes detect the separate dreams
*Octarine, in the Discworld books, is known as ‘the colour of magic’, which forms the title of Pratchett’s first ever Discworld book. According to Disc mythology, octarine is visible only to wizards and cats, and is generally described as a sort of greenish-yellow purple colour.
** Grue and Bleen are sniglets to describe a color that extends to include shades of blue and green. An alternative, meaning the same thing, is bleen, though linguists and anthropologists tend to use the term grue.
II. Muri’s prompt guidelines
- Two accepted forms:
- Eight lines: Rhyming a/b/a/b/c/d/c/d, or:
- Ten Lines: Rhyming a/b/a/b/b/c/c/d/c/d
- Syllabic: 8 or 10 syllables in each line (each line being of the same length).
Synesthesia is when the stimulation of one sense leads to involuntary experiences in a second sense. This is often manifested as letters or words having color, colors having flavors, smells having a sound or sounds having a taste, etc.
III. Submit: Click on ‘Mr. Linky’ below
In order to participate and share a poem, open up this blog post, outside of the WordPress reader. At the bottom, just below these words, you will see a small rectangular graphic with the words ‘Mr Linky’. Click on that to submit.
Submissions are open for 4 days, until Sunday, September 25, 10:00 AM (GMT+3)
Last week’s W3 poem
This week’s W3 prompt poem (above), composed by Murisopsis, was written in response to last week’s W3 prompt poem, which Aditi Sharma wrote:
‘Aurora’ by Aditi
The castles, the wars, the unwavering heart, moments of helplessness, creeping their way from places so dark and I knew you were happy, I knew you were sad, but when I felt all alone, I found you in those hidden trails, in the forsaken crevices of my heart, emerging like aurora, I had never felt those butterflies, overfilling my soul with the urge to encompass these boundaries between fiction and the facts and live inside that dream, while you delicately guide me across your masterpiece, I need to listen more, why everything fell apart and why still the love remains, I never knew what love felt like but it must feel like admiring this art, to find my way across its heart and fancying to live here till forever falls apart.