The southernmost tip of my soul

Here’s my response to this week’s micro-season ‘The bear retreats to its den’. Looking outside my window at a frozen world I relate to this micro-season very much. You can find Mark’s full prompt post by clicking on this link: https://naturalistweekly.com/2022/12/16/micro-season-the-bear-retreats-to-its-den/ Hibernation, always a tempting thought mid December. Where would I go hide for a

The most important thing, by Britta Benson

Another Tuesday, and another Expressive Writing session with Michelle Berberet from the Georgetown Lombardi Arts and Humanities programme. Here’s my poem. Perhaps a bit sappy, but that’s how I felt on this All Hallows Day. The most important thing I am home, that place where familiar and unknown live side by side like good neighbours.

Autumn from my point of view, by Britta Benson

Autumn, from the point of view of a leaf. Why not? Here’s my shadorma. Autumn from my point of view Last to fall. Held on, sun-soaked, cold. Letting go of summer, hardest part of growing old. Watch my dance of life.

Autumn, by Britta Benson

Autumn Leaf on tour. Soft journey, carried by winds free of charge. First swirl, colour curls in the air, painting quick patterns of change. What remains must always return to earth’s core, be more. Beginnings fall. Seasons gone, yet to come, leap of faith. Leave.

Chill, by Britta Benson

Here’s my response to this week’s W3 poetry challenge. The guidelines, set by Poet of the Week Sunra Rainz, ask for an ekphrastic poem inspired by a horror movie that gave us the chills, or a poem about an experience that gave us the chills. You can read Sunra’s prompt poem and guidelines by clicking

Good Day, by Britta Benson

Good day in Paris. Here’s the summary… Good day Got lost, found other, sonder, sundry wonder. Watched autumn leaves change colour, direction, on a whim, a notion, a necessity. Forgot destinations, discovered tastes, experienced this, that, enough, not on the map, arrived.

From my table in the restaurant, by Britta Benson

This unfolded so quickly, that there was no time to take a picture. I was left gawping. I know it happened. I was there. I am still lost in admiration. In a rather weird, disturbing sort of way… So, imagine Paris, sitting in a restaurant, staring out of the window… From my table in the

Rosetta Stone, by Britta Benson

My haiku on history, ‘Rosetta Stone’, has been published on Whispers & Echoes today. Click on this link to read the full post: https://whispersandechoesmag.home.blog/2022/10/17/rosetta-stone-britta-benson/ Rosetta Stone Each mark, a window. Rock weathers forgetfulness. Echoes seal the deal.

Habits of frugality, by Britta Benson

Just a shadorma poem today. I like the form a lot. Habits of frugality Morning cold, pale and quiet light. Inviting. Clarity, surprised, clenched tight, mistaken. Ghostlike signs of hope.

Interval of grief, or: How I write you, by Britta Benson

Ha! How’s that for something cheery… Anyway, this is my response to the W3 Poetry Challenge over on The Skeptic’s Kaddish (https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/10/12/w3-prompt-24-weave-written-weekly/). This week’s guidelines were set by Poet of the Week Lesley Scoble. She gives poets the choice between writing a ‘Minute poem’ or a Shakespearean Sonnet. I chose the latter. Interval of grief