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What is this long silence?
Has the circle been completed?
Words gone missing?
AWOL, the slippery thoughts
refuse to be named.
I knew flowers, yellow round
morning gleaming
named for a larger universe
now brown and faded as the winter
breaks stems
dark waters frown at the roots.
Why the long silence?
the worn thesaurus sits unopened on the shelf
a torn page
Was that the place you last looked?
I seek out crimson
find darkness
a circle drifts, a bubble
slippery, delicate, pale on the water
winding to break against the nearest rock
completed now
and lost. Fran
To dance
Wildly, with fierce
Abandonment, letting
Hidden longings escape through my
Moving limbs.
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The above poem is written in the form of a cinquain, sometimes referred to as American Haiku. Cinquains use a fixed syllable format set in 5 lines as follows:
Line 1: 2 syllables
Line 2: 4 syllables
Line 3: 6 syllables
Line 4: 8 syllables
Line 5: 2-3 syllables.
Red sun, slow riser,
Paints the wings of the white dove.
Dawn comes soaring in.
I am sooo excited to be able to share this new version of one of my poems with everyone! Lori responded to my initial poem and I asked her if she would help me by reading it alongside another version sent to me by my poetry mentor, a version I felt stripped it of its essence, which happily Lori agreed to. Then Lori did the masterful thing and took the best of my mentors assessment and created this version instead. Thank you Lori!! And a very Happy Easter to you!! (and to everyone else as well!!!)
Incense floats
on purple raiment
and fish breezes
where Carnival,
red with desire,
once laughed
and danced
its way across
the cobblestones.
Where wild streamers
caught by March winds,
flung up to the Phoenix
whale-road,
soaring forever
towards the sun.
Now the ashes
are thumbed on my forehead
by morning rain.
Monks chant laments.
Sombre days stretch into
hair-shirt nights.
Easter is a
Resurrection away.
Bring me a plate of your magical food.
I’ve fought for months to lose these pounds
These lumps around my waist are me,
Though I’ve run a track, yet ’round and ’round.
I’m having cake and sweets and sauce
Yes, cream and butter, all I want.
I’ll eat the piles upon my plate,
Until I take a breath and pause.
This exercise, it’s for the birds,
I crab so loud, but then I think.
I’ll lose that weight with fun and games.
I’ll dance upon the bar and sing.
(Let’s hope the proprietress doesn’t hear,
The hip-hip hoorays and many cheers.)
Bo
Comes a minstrel a-wandering,
Telling stories, singing songs.
Comes a minstrel a-wandering,
Won’t you come along?
He’s tunes to play and songs to sing-
A lute, a flute, a fiddle wild-
Fingers fly and voice trills
Enchanting each and every child.
Comes a minstrel a-wandering,
Over hills and through the pass.
Comes a minstrel a-wandering,
Winking at each comely lass!
He’s news to tell and stories, too-
Tales to chill and tales to thrill.
His voice echoes through the night
People listening with a will.
Comes a minstrel a-wandering,
Tattered, torn, limping some.
Comes a minstrel a-wandering,
Still he beckons, Come!
He sits beside the fire at night,
His voice rising in a song.
His listeners sit up straight and then-
Old ones smile and sing along.
Comes a minstrel a-wandering,
Folks will come from far and near.
Comes a minstrel a-wandering,
Come and listen, for he’s here.
he stands at the top of the stairway
and demands in a testosterone rage
that I tell him where I’ve hidden
his laundered shirts, blue and beige.
he’s been so worrisome lately
to his dad, and me, his mom.
driving recklessly on nearby streets,
slamming home at three a.m.
so i say to him, “Just go away
and take care of yourself.”
and I wonder what I did so wrong;
he was raised with common sense.
so he moved that very weekend
to a friend’s house ‘cross the town
and I never went to see him there
but I wished that he’d come home.
by twenty-two he mellowed,
i saw him driving down our street.
he said he’d bring his friends home
for “a decent meal to eat.”
I met them at the doorway
I didn’t know what to think
But my son, he smiled and hugged me
and he kissed me on my cheek.
“i’m sorry that it’s been so long,
that I did not call for help,
but I had to sort stuff in my mind
and plan my life myself.”
And I knew my son, he’d grown much,
more wise and yet still sweet.
and I welcomed him with open arms.
and pains in my heart, they ceased.
Do you know Little Run-Along?
Little Run-Along slips around the corner
And leans against the door frame-
“Oh, there you are,” says Mama,
“Run along now and play.”
Little Run-Along brushes her brown curls
Out of her eyes
And sighs
“Yes, Mama,” and runs along.
Little Run-Along wanders up to the fence
And drapes her arms over it.
Papa looks over and says,
“Oh, there you are.
Run along now and play.”
Little Run-Along wipes her hands on her dress
And sighs,
“Yes, Papa,” and runs along.
Little Run-Along drifts into the kitchen
and slides into a chair.
Grandma looks up and says,
“Oh there you are.
Run along now and play.”
Little Run-Along scratches her leg
and sighs,
“Yes Grandma,” and runs along.
Little Run-Along climbs the stairs
and sits on the top one.
Grandpa looks out a door and says,
“Oh, there you are.
Run along now and play.”
Little Run-Along shakes her head
and sighs,
“Yes, Grandpa,” and runs along.
Little Run-Along plods over to the front steps
and sit on the bottom one.
Her puppy comes over and barks.
“Oh, there you are,” says Little Run-Along,
“Run along now and play.”
Her puppy whines and tucks his tail
And walks slowly away.
Little Run-Along watches him go
And then something catches in her heart
“Wait!” she says, “I’ll come too!”
Incense floats on
purple raiment and
fish breezes.
Monks chant
psalms of lament.
Sombre days stretch into
hair-shirt nights.
Easter is a
Resurrection away.
But first, the carnival
red with desire,
laughter day,
dances and sings its way
across the cobblestones.
Wild-winged streamers
caught by March winds,
flung backwards and up,
up, up to the Phoenix
whale-road, heading
straight for the sun.
But they cannot
fly forever and
soon the ashes flutter down,
down, down from above,
until they settle on
our foreheads,
thumbed by the morning
of the purple rain.
This is my first attempt of rhymed verse since grade school ( and that’s very long ago).
The tempo isn’t just quite right
But I do so love the sentiment.
Sorry! I’ve been trying so many rhymes, I couldn’t resist that couplet when it popped into my mind. And here’s the poem.
A Gypsy Memory
I wander far from family tents
while camping in thick wilderness.
to far explore from all the rest.
Creeping so silent through thick underbrush
breathing so quiet, barely a hush;
the forest arms wrap me with restoring touch.
Then I open my eyes so very wide
and a dark, young girl I really do spy
in colours bright on a sweet Gypsy child.
Quite shy, she hides in a giant oak tree
and peeks around slowly so she can see.
Our eyes do meet, and smile do we.
We smile, oh, a most friendly smile
She beckons; we walk ‘most a mile
And seek her camp of Gypsies wild.
Down to a clearing in the vale
Bright caravans line the deep, green dale
Protected from both wind and gale.
Oh, fabulous tents and ornate spires
Amid the glowing, embered fires
Hear tambourines ring high and higher
In fascination, I can’t hold still
As gypsies sing with robins’ trill
And dance so free on misty rill.
The families from the Middle East
make rice and curry, a fine feast,
their welcome’s true for man or beast.
I find a hammock in the trees
and watch a honking pass of geese
My happiness shall never cease.
But then a yell from mountain high
My father calls and so I cry
“Yes, father, here I am” and sigh.
My Gypsy friend hides with her clan
All dancing and all singing banned
Tents fill with woman and with man.
And slowly I go up the path
to meet my Dad and we rush fast
for he feared we’d meet a Gypsy lass.
This story lies within my heart.
Forced so by race, we had to part
But Gypsies, they’d read my Tarot card.
They’d searched my fortune; it was read
A laugh-filled life and long, they’d said.
Soul mate and I, we’d live well wed.
The Tarot card I’d saved was Lovers.
The life I knew, the mem’ries, hover
surround my bed and quilted cover.
I dream of Gypsies.
WINTER
Harshest season of all you come again,
Returning like the dark moon.
Sneaking behind us, you catch our coat tails and
drag us to the frozen lakes of tears unheard.
Powerless we fall, as Inanna did.
Yet still we try to hold our shawls close
as if we could resist your grasp.
Long nails in claws that cut through tender flesh,
strip us bare of hope.
And so we stand naked and empty,
having dropped all at each of the
seven gates of hell.
The coldest season hangs on to her prey,
releasing her not.
Inanna screams her song of terror and lamentation.
Together with her we cry ”All is lost”.
Voices plead for mercy through thick fog.
Icy breezes drift across the dead landscape
like the vapours of Inanna’s soul.
And then at last the turning comes.
The darkest days are over.
The time for ascent has come.
A new moon is born.
Inanna rises.
WE ARE DAMNED, MY SISTERS by Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill
We are damned, my sisters,
we who swam at night
on beaches, with the stars
laughing with us
phosphoresense about us
we shreiking with delight
with the coldness of the tide
without shifts or dresses
as innocent as infants.
We are damned, my sisters.
We are damned, my sisters,
we who accepted the priests’ challenge
our kindred’s challenge:who ate from destiny’s dish
who have knowledge of good and evil
who are no longer concerned.
We spent nights in Eden’s fields
eating apples, gooseberries; roses
behind our ears, singing songs
around the gipsy bon-fires
drinking and romping with sailors and robbers;
and so we’re damned, my sisters.
We didn’t darn stockings
we didn’t comb or tease
we knew nothing of handmaidens
except the one in high Heaven.
We preferred to be shoeless by the tide
dancing singly on the wet sand
the piper’s tune coming to us
on the kind Spring wind, than to be
indoors making strong tea for the men —
and so we’re damed, my sisters!
Our eyes will go to the worms
our lips to the clawed crabs
and our livers will be given
as food to the parish dogs.
The hair will be torn from our heads
the flesh flayed from our bones.
They’ll find apple seeds and gooseberry skins
in the remains of our vomit
when we are damed, my sisters.
This has got to be one of my all-time favourite poems! Actually this is a translation from the Irish, the language it was first written in. However the poet’s first language is English and she did collaborate with another very well known Irish poet to translate this poem into English. The original Irish of course captures nuances that are lost in translation, yet still the poem remains strong, largely because of its imagery, especially all those images that refer to Irish Catholicism (”We spent nights in Eden’s fields” and ”handmaidens…the one in high Heaven”) and consequent feelings of deep-seated guilt. The last verse especially captures the sort of fear that every ”good” Irish Catholic would have felt in their bones about turning away from the ”one true faith” — all those images of the female bodies being torn to shreds with the suggestion that this will be done in line with what the ”parish” requires. Oh it is so beautifully vicious!!! And then the revenge at the end — what ”they” will find
”in the remains of our vomit”–
”apple seeds and goosesberry skins” — the Irish equivalent of poemgranite fruit.
The theme of course is how the women have turned away from the men and male imposed rules and religion, and instead have discovered together the inner secret of their hidden joys. Now they swim at night, and the stars laugh with them (what a beautiful image!–a very Irish way of phrasing).
The language of course is very striking, as when the poet juxtaposes innocence with the fact of their being damned. To find themselves and live authentically they will be ostracized.
Some time it has been since I walked
Upon these paths of peace and delight,
Still remember I well the day I first saw
Those city walls of splendour, so bright.
The city itself sat on a hill
Surrounded it seemed by walls of gold,
And any who saw it in the sun
Were dazzled by beauty, as is often told.
The City of Light lay resplendent in glory
Magnificent spirals and churches abound;
A peal of bells rang out a new story
It seemed as if angels alone were around.
Its beauty seemed both untouched and unreal,
And I merely human with feet made of clay,
That little there was but for me just to feel
Such a City of Angels was not mine on that day.
[This poem was written as an attempt to create using traditional rhyming stanzas. It is based on a piece of prose written about a vision seen while wandering in the environs of the City of Ladies.)
Sun breaks the night spells
cast by veils of chiffon and lies.
Satin clouds part to reveal
what darkness hides.
Whisperings of icy breezes
trail over the horizon.
Snow arrives,
reaching into shadows
with fingers of dazzling truth.
But the traveller prefers to
follow trails that lead him to
far and distant promises.
A still pool remains,
reminding any who
care to listen that
secrets more ancient
than they know
lie at the bottom of
her realm.
Night sky glitters with flaming stars
While Eros drinks his purple wine,
Golden tongued poets murmur in memory
On the parting Muses for whom they pine.
Bittersweet desire lies on the altar,
Tokens of moist lotus trail in the dawn,
To sing and dance in the sea as they bathe
And caress the desire for She whom they yearn.
Wild girls heard singing in ecstatic tongue
Daughters of Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love,
Who drink the bee’s nectar from the heavenly urn,
Then lie on the earth with the red-fingered dove.
Heart broken poets burn incense at twilight
Walk down from the mountains in procession and song,
Find sweet ambrosia to quench dry, parched lips,
Then dance in Her grove a-cloaked all night long.
Soulsister
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