Liz and Dana at Poetry Thursday came up with a difficult exercise for this week’s project. Basically, you had to find a random, unknown word in the dictionary, without so much as even peeking at the definition (which was quite a challenge, in and of itself, because I am just too darned curious!) Then, without a clue of what the word means, you were supposed to write a poem to define it. I’m willing to try anything once, so came up with this:

Zoysia

Z-words are sung
and tickle the tongue.
Followed by “OY”,
they can only mean joy
or maybe boistrous or noise
made by rowdy boys.
In the middle, the “s” does
repeat the “z”’s buzz:
a silent smile to a laugh,
reversing its other half.
“ia” is like “mia”,
meaning “mine” in Italia.

Zoysia–my state of gentle joy!

.

Just for the record, I generally dislike writing rhymed and metered poetry, as it feels way too contrived (and explains why I do it so badly!), but like I said, I’ll try anything once. (Luckily you can’t see me on my blog because I am still cringing!)

Having finished the poem, at this point, you are allowed to look up the definition of the word to see what it really means (and verify that you are totally off the mark). In fact, I’m not even going to tell you what it means here because I was so disappointed. I had built up such high expectations for my word that the true definition would never be satisfying enough.

Since the word is, in fact, something you can find in a garden, I tried working around a vegetation theme through a different approach: writing the word vertically, giving rise to this poem.

.
Zucchini blossoms hover
Over tangled vines in
Your parched back yard.
Safran petals will soon
Implode, giving way to
A fleshy green cylinder.

While I like this better, it still has nothing to do with the actual definition of the word. Oh well. Can’t say I didn’t try.

On a somewhat related subject, I highly recommend this English Word of the Day site as a fun way to enrich your vocabulary.

lady in red
married woman
forbidden fruit
object of desire, but out of reach
nothing more than fantasy
a pleasant distraction
to be admired and longed for from afar
a distant, beautiful thing unspoilt

Like with poisonous berries in nature,
red is a warning: “Don’t touch.”

Sunday morning sneaks into my bed
with hurried steps muffled by footy pyjamas.
Two warm bodies still smelling of dreams,
of innocence, burrow under the covers,
each cuddling into the warmth and reassurance
found beneath a protective wing and good-morning kisses.
Eyes still shut against an undecided day,
hearing only our breathing in unison—my favorite moment—
melded together, like before they were born.
Then sleep is chased away. Yawns are replaced by giggles.
Words are whispered and spirits ignite.
It is a morning of blanket tents and tickles.

Repressed and compressed,
Anger accumulates inside me
like a ball of yarn,
with superimposed layers
of disappointment,
conflict and absorbed aggression,
intertwined with incomprehension.

The knots in my stomach
untie themselves slowly
with each deep breath I take.
I tug gently on the thread with my pen,
coax out the wrath by writing.
The ball unfurls, shrinking imperceptibly at first,
transforming red and black strands of anger into ink,
and I knit words across the page,
leaving an empty space within called relief.

An invincible body taut from exercise,
sweat dripping from temples to asphalt.
Two years ago—only nineteen—immortal.

My legs breezed me past a spot on the road
where a bird lay, the life knocked out of it.
Life oozed out and spread itself on the tar.

I stopped in my tracks, not wanting death
to ooze out on me, corrode my hands,
invade my body, spread over me like a fungus.

I ran away breathless and cowardly,
but I couldn’t outrun the shadow
of that bird in my conscience.

Now, I wince in the fluorescent light
of my hospital room, immobilized
against the odor of sanitized sheets.

Bit by bit, the cancer hollowed me out,
dug a canyon inside me that echoes
when I scream my despair across it.

The disease evicted me from my body,
a pale shell with sunken eyes,
bloated cheeks and awkward limbs.

I’m merely a tangential witness
to its destruction, its disintegration,
waiting for the paralyzing, maddening pain to end.

Relief. I’d hoped death would come like this.
Just a body turning cold after too much running,
waiting for a familiar bird to raise me on its wings.

My basement apartment
looks out onto the sidewalk
at street level.
I watch as shoes parade in front of a
fragile and solitary daisy,
leaving behind only echoes
like a metronome.

Shiny black dress shoes glint and scissor
through the air, below hovering
pinstriped suits, perfectly pressed.
Red high-heels delicately navigate,
avoiding the holes in the grates.
Colorful sneakers peek their noses out
from under too-long jeans.
Beat-up oxfords amble and loiter.
Solid boots. Unmemorable mocassins.
Even dogs’ paws and claws
click against the pavement
into the gutter
And more…

But only one little pair
of pink patent leathers
notices me as she leans down
to smell the daisy.
She makes me, barefoot,
exist with her smile.

The flower still grows,
undaunted,
in a crack in the cement.

Her blue eyelids
are sealed together
so as not to see
the blows she endures.
For once awakened,
the crushing responsibility
to defend herself
or succumb
will keep them open
evermore.

I’m trapped in a blue-green memory,
a tidal pool that is my world.
Washed up on this rocky shore,
shattered, splintered and scattered
like seaglass and driftwood.
The thousand pieces of me
crawling to sanctuary.
Landlocked and imprisoned at the moon’s whim.
The deluge of my solitude
engulfing this vibrant spawn of life.

Your familiar face floats
like a distorted wave before my eyes,
then vanishes.
Your musk still lingers in my mind
and your gaze still pierces the hole in my heart.
I fill the stagnant, brackish puddle with my tears
and helplessly drown
in a bitter sea of reminiscence,
entangled in the seaweed of you.

You revealed your secret to me,
Then told me to destroy the shame-filled confession
With flames as wild and burning as your passion.
Now all that reamins is a single sheet of ash.
All semblance of life
Burned away forever
Like the love
that was once
between
us.

My brow is furrowed
and my white-knuckled hands
wring the steering wheel
as I make a mental inventory
of chores awaiting me
at the end of my evening commute:

Pick up the kids.
Bring the little one to the doctor’s–
she’s got an ear infection again.
Use magic to shape a meal from left-overs.
Find the least-wrinkled clothes to wear tomorrow…

Speeding past in my red turbo,
I catch just a glimpse of him
on his sputtering and dilapidated tractor,
wheels turning at a walking pace.
It must be forty years old.
He must be seventy.

His face is ploughed through with age,
though the lines are not as straight
as those of his plantation.
His cloudy eyes peer through the bottle-ends
of his dark-rimmed glasses.
His knotted fingers, twisted vines,
rest gently on the wheel
and let the clunky old machine drive itself
between the familiar fields
of its past, present and future.

And even though he flashes
through my line of vision
for only a moment,
I am sure that the crescent
between his ruddy cheeks
is contentment.

I take my foot off the pedal
and slow to a walking pace.