Daytime Amethyst

Day Thirty
April 30, 2018
Well, it had to happen, what with time being linear and all. We have finally arrived at the last day of Na/GloPoWriMo 2018! I hope you have had fun writing poetry over the course of the month, and that you’ll come back next year, when we will do it all over again, with new prompts, new featured participants, and a to-be-determined other kind of poetry feature.
Our last craft resource for you is this online collection of recordings of Borges’ lectures on poetry and many other topics. Borges was, in addition to being a poet and writer of strange and compelling short stories, an inveterate professor who lectured widely in both Spanish and English. His lectures are seeded throughout with strange factoids, fascinating observations linking the poets and poetry of different ages and languages, and an overwhelmingly omnivorous approach to knowledge.
And for our final (optional) prompt, I’d like you to take your cue from Borges, and write a poem that engages with a strange and fascinating fact. It could be an odd piece of history, an unusual bit of art trivia, or something just plain weird. While I cannot vouch for the actual accuracy of any of the facts presented at the links above (or any other facts you might use as inspiration!), I can tell you that there are definitely some poetic ideas here, just waiting for someone to use them.
We’ll be back tomorrow with a last post bidding farewell to Na/GloPoWriMo 2018, but in the meantime . . .
Happy writing!

Daytime Amethyst

Dream: Subterranean labyrinth
violet walls, sheer amethyst rock.
Win those treasures
turn them into jewels!
Pickaxes, legion of miners?

No, says the dream.
Pen and paper.

Rock walls of amethyst?
Pen a miner’s tool?
Surreal visions. Crazy dream.

Friend takes her to visit a poetess
windows framed by ancient plane trees
overlook Lake Geneva.

Tea around low glass table.
She reaches for the cup
sees thick glass plate rests
on humongous amethyst.
Almost spills the tea.

Chairs along a wall:
Plexiglas hugging violet rocks
modern amethyst thrones.

Entranced, asks no questions
dumbfounded, doesn’t confess:
I dream of being a poetess.

Drinks served on the terrace.
Talk about Indian saint who
conjures jewels out of thin air
hostess went to his ashram
sat at his feet.

Saint’s photograph handed around
big halo of hair
round, benevolent face emanates joy.

Women take time looking
men hand on quickly:
gurus, money, Rolls Royces, sex
sucker born every day.
She senses photo warm her hands.

Many years pass.

She forgot poetess’ name
which friend took her there
thought she recalled the exact place
looked for old plane trees
broad-fronted building
windows overlooking lake

nowhere found.

She rubs her chunky amethyst ring
turns it around
stone faces her palm.

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