A Twist in Translation by Carol Keys and Katie Haigh

Day 16 of NaPoWriMo. Today’s prompt was to write a piece based on translation, so I have done my own spin on this. I have used my friend Carol Keys poem to first all, write what words come to mind for her words and then to polish it into a piece of poetry.

Blocked By Carol Keys

Like virgin snow

Untouched

By human hands

I stare

At the stark white sheet

Where are the words

Not a clue

No words in my head

Words

Like bricks

Tumbling out of

A muddled mind

Building structures

Tarnishing

The white carpet

Beneath

but hey!

what’s this

a page full of words

forming a pattern

coming from within

Gracing the chaste white paper

I am blocked

No more.

by Carol Keys

(c)carolkeys Feb2013

Untouchable

Untouched
She is pure
Admired
Worshipped
We gaze upon her
Ice cold beauty
Where is her heart
She is forbidden
Wanted
Yet unaccepted
Alone
Her tears fall
Like raindrops
From crying Gods
They strived for perfection
Yet unearthed a beautiful monster
Whose pain destroys
Those bewitched in her shadow
She is high above
While we watch below
Out of reach
She remains, Untouched.

by Katie Haigh

(c)KatieHaigh April 2013

20130416-143116.jpg

Here’s the link to Carol Keys blog, if you want to check it out, http://poorpoet.wordpress.com/

 

photo by Katie Haigh

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2 Comments Add yours

  1. vik says:

    Hi Katie – lovely stuff – you inspired me to do the same! I’ve looked at Carol’s fab poem, and yours, and riffed on both of them. Needs a bit of work, but still – work in progress is good, no? 🙂

    Death and the lady

    all it is
    is a sudden quelling of movement
    an end to all the changes of state,
    the cycles, the transmutations
    Even the soft in-and-out of breath
    vanishes
    Liquids stay liquid eternally, solids
    stay themselves
    music plays, but it’s just a stuck needle
    and the thrumming molecules
    of white paper
    are no longer agitated
    no longer sweated with ink
    or the ripple of rhyme

    It’s the long continuum; one million reams
    of blank white, rolling to the horizon
    bearing only the ghosts of what we might have said
    And whatever is lovely
    remains lovely, frosted, untouched, safe, unquestioned
    because in death
    I don’t suppose we write

    1. Poetkatie says:

      Yes it very good Vik, a another twist in translation x

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