Write a poem for National Poetry Month based on the topic described....rather, write a poem set in, pertaining to, or inspired by the given region, whether its entirety or just some part of it, as this year's prompts are going to be unified by the theme "Around the World" like last year's prompts were unified by the theme "Esoterica". Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. There are three levels of participation:

Bronze. Participated at least once.

Silver. Participated every day.

Gold. Participated every day, with all entries either being the same form (e.g., every one a sonnet) or being distinct forms (e.g., no two haiku).


Returning to Asia, today's region is South East Asia, including Taiwan.

Pearl


Pearl of the Orient Seas: what does this mean?
What sort of pearl are we? Formed by a clam---
gigantic, oft mistaken for its shell

by lacking the usual luster---or by an oyster?
How are we built? A perfect sphere, a teardrop,
perhaps a malformed button or even something

completely uneven---again, more like the shell
of our molluscan mother---whence our color:
are we the white of noon? the pink of dusk?

the black of a moonless night? the golden spears
thrust by the sun across the sky at dawn?
or even some kind of rainbow, our nacre skin

burnished beyond recognition to something born
of earth and flame and not of flesh and water?
Were we dredged up or farmed? What sort of use

became of us: a bead in an endless string,
one half a pair of earrings, or the chief
draw to some tall crown or weighty locket?

Whose hands have held us? Who continues to hold?
And will we be passed down again or sold
or, as the parable goes, cast off to pigs
and crushed at last between their greedy teeth?

(04-21-2026, 03:15 AM)RiverNotch Wrote:  Pearl


Pearl of the Orient Seas: what does this mean?
What sort of pearl are we? Formed by a clam---
gigantic, oft mistaken for its shell

by lacking the usual luster---or by an oyster?
How are we built? A perfect sphere, a teardrop,
perhaps a malformed button or even something

completely uneven---again, more like the shell
of our molluscan mother---whence our color:
are we the white of noon? the pink of dusk?

the black of a moonless night? the golden spears
thrust by the sun across the sky at dawn?
or even some kind of rainbow, our nacre skin

burnished beyond recognition to something born
of earth and flame and not of flesh and water?
Were we dredged up or farmed? What sort of use

became of us: a bead in an endless string,
one half a pair of earrings, or the chief
draw to some tall crown or weighty locket?

Whose hands have held us? Who continues to hold?
And will we be passed down again or sold
or, as the parable goes, cast off to pigs
and crushed at last between their greedy teeth?

Beautiful

Overhang


Southeast Asia always rejoiced in tribes and
peoples which were separate in a way that
Greeks or Amerindians, though their lands were
just as much cut up

as Annam or Thailand or Burma (not to
disrespect Cambodia), were not. Yet in
all that great peninsula there’s a common
character, shared with

Canton’s rounded coast and Formosa: it’s a
dynamism, businesslike independence
finding its expression unbound from jaded
Mandarin’s grasp.