The Poetry Haul Challenge
Week Four - #artstackpoets #artstack
Dear Artstackers,
We’ve entered the fourth week of The Poetry Haul, and the creativity keeps flowing! Every week, you amaze us with your ability to weave words into something unforgettable. This week’s set of words is here to challenge your imagination once again:
Week 4 Words
mindless, fake, unforgettable, constitutional, senior, unruly, evaporate, space, around, chapter
Each word carries its own weight—whether it’s the mindless repetition of routine, the unruly nature of creativity, or the way memories can evaporate over time. You might take inspiration from history (constitutional), the wisdom of a senior, or the vastness of space. Or maybe you’re reflecting on turning the page to a new chapter in life.
How will you shape these words into poetry?
How to Participate
Write a poem using some or all of the words.
Share it with us by [posting directly on Substack with #artstackpoets] and tag us ARTSTACK please remember to type @ with our name and click our account. From there our account should be highlighted.
Share it with us in the ARTSTACK Discord group or in the comments!
Need inspiration?
**The Eucharis Lily**
From long hibernation through
blissful negation of
the winter’s chill,
the Eucharis Lily stirs
her bulbous body in confines
of an abode of a pot;
Setting free the embodied energy
of a wuthering cry,
buried deep inside,
in silo, but for its
connection to the soil;
Awakened by
the waning winter’s sun’s
frequent murmurings of her rights —
a soft sigh pressing its way in through
the chaos outside.
Rising tall on
her stalky legs,
her strong shoulders now un-
taut, separated
from the weight
of the throat’s knot;
Un-furling
pearlescent glow of a gossamer’s
feather-feel;
Still, with the faintest hint
of a fragrance,
she bows down
her head in humility
to the sun of the spring,
as if in a candid
understatement
of inner peace.
This body Trapped in a silo of hibernation, Buried shoulder-deep With the weight of the unknowing. Life drags its heels, A ceaseless grind of hours That ache against the soul. The burden of duty - a stone Pressed to the chest— Bureaucracy’s grip tightening, Stealing the air of peace. Rights become an understatement, A whisper drowned in the roar Of ticking clocks and endless forms, Filing away the fragile cry of longing, The quiet, frequent ache to be free. This body Knows the weight of waiting, Of dreams held in stasis, Aching to rise, Buried still.
Last week’s submissions were incredible—your words brought depth, beauty, and unexpected perspectives. Keep pushing your creativity, and let’s make this chapter of The Poetry Haul another one to remember.
Looking forward to your poems!
Happy writing,
The ARTSTACK Team
THE JIG OF JUPITER
Let space answer for us because
We want to walk across the orbiting
Rings. We will not drown even if
There is a mindless crack in the
Hull of our mahogany boat.
Feathers and filthy flowers crown
The unruly round heads of the mirror
Humans. A kiss on the forehead
And a cut of a piece of hair from
My lineage. We became fake friends.
I would never take the King’s
Name in vain, but I also do
Not know his name or which part of
This unforgettable vermilion planet he reigns over.
At this point in my life–a new chapter–
I only remember the faces with bright eyes
And a deep soul behind them. I can
Always find them in the crowd.
Let me feel what sets the hearts
Of the mirror humans on fire.
Taking my hand, they lead me
To a desert land with a view of Mars.
In a circle, we twirl and jig around, we
Swing and hop, we samba and
Foxtrot into the heart of Jupiter
And the end of amour.
We want to grow into the flowing
seas before they evaporate. We will not climb,
Even if the mountains tell the senior King
The meaning of our translucent wings.
During the daytime, we float in the
Vast subsurface oceans of Europa.
From the land of gas, to the spheres
Of frozen years, we trespass on
The sacred moons and make music.
Yet, alas, I look back on Earth,
And for what it is worth, I feel
A pull to this familiar place
Where I was birthed.
Cobalt skin and tattered olive clothing,
I learn my constitutional rights and I
Make a name for myself amongst
The beings who reflect back pure truth.
If it was not for my curious
Heart and that wooden boat,
I might have never explored
This place or discovered this terrain.
In a circle, we twirl and jig around, we
Swing and hop, we samba and
Foxtrot into the heart of Jupiter
And the end of amour!
#artstackpoets
My body awakens from a heart-healing hibernation, warm and anticipating, ready to become addicted
to the medicinal properties
of music, of movement
and the remedy of creativity.
Now that divine rest has relinquished me free to excercise unalienable, human rights,
And as frequently as I like,
where will I go?
What possibilities will bring me peace?
In my silo, I listened to myself cry, and it was not enough,
so I wept for truth.
An old, giant book balanced on the top of my head as I tried to cat-walk through artificial flames.
Maybe if I tiptoed along the exact right path, my body and my book would survive.
It finally slid off, my shoulders slumped, my posture compromised.
“This is what democracy looks like” feels like an understatement, in a world where the weary need so much rest.
(I tried to use @artstack in my post, and it didn’t come up?) Thank you for this space and this weekly exercise!