They soar,
never stumbling,
effortless in their grace,
a leap into the shadowed world
unknown
and yet
familiar, cycles repeated
without striving. Them. Me.
I walk circles
at peace
This is a mirror cinquain for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, using synonyms for fall and try.
When the Stars were Bright
He wooed her when the stars were bright,
she liked the way he smiled at her.
He kissed her first one moonlit night–
she thought, “he is my future.”
She liked the way he smiled at her,
not knowing then his smiles would fade.
She thought, “he is my future,”
forgetting daylight darkens to evening shade.
Not knowing then his smiles would fade
when hardship came in winter cold,
forgetting daylight darkens to evening shade
and so, her youthful dreams remained untold.
When hardship came in winter cold,
he packed a bag and sailed away,
and so, her youthful dreams remained untold
to him, but she was glad he had not stayed.
He packed a bag and sailed away.
She remembered the things she had not said
to him, but she was glad he had not stayed,
caressing her belly as she lay on their bed.
He kissed her first one moonlit night
(she remembered it so well.)
He wooed her when the stars were bright–
to their babe, that’s all the story she’d tell.
Joseph Noel Paton, “Hesperus, the Evening Star, Sacred to Lovers,” 1857 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
This is for dVerse. Björn asked us to write a poetic narrative. Jane and Kerfe have me thinking of pantoums.
I wrote this while listening to the Kavanaugh hearings. . .it started out much darker. . .
Now–a church in Philadelphia,
a sanctuary harboring
immigrants—
as medieval churches
once harbored
fugitives.
Then–my grandparents,
immigrants escaping
hate, fear, pogroms,
the shtetl, the Pale—
traveling—
to faraway ports–
chasing the American dream
through the Depression
always seeking a safe harbor–beyond
Lillian at dVerse has asked us to write a quadrille using the word harbor.
KERNER: “The particle world is the dream world of the intelligence officer. An electron can be here or there at same moment. You can choose; it can go from here to there without going in between; it can pass through two doors at the same time, or from one door to another by a path which is there for all to see until someone looks, and then the act of looking has made it take a different path. Its movements cannot be anticipated because it has no reasons. It defeats surveillance because when you what it’s doing you can’t be certain where it is, and when you know where it is you can’t be certain what it’s doing. .”
–Tom Stoppard, Hapgood
“I cannot tell how Eternity seems. It sweeps around me like a sea. . .”
–Emily Dickinson, from a letter to her cousins, 1882
“the future and the maps
Hide something I was waiting for.”
–from Edward Thomas, “When First I Came Here”
The seen and the unseen
sleight of hand,
the extemporaneous, the planned
blink, you miss it,
not in shadow, in sun or fluorescent light
missing what is in plain sight,
nature, spies, bumps in the night
Look in front of you—there it is.
Rainy Day Sight at Red Bank Battlefield, National Park, NJ
How far is eternity,
how wide and how deep?
Does it stretch through
cloudy skies
glance and stretch its size
through shadowed ground
and then around
to reach the stars,
(falling, calling)
a metaphysical quasar,
whose ways and days are
hinted at, but unknown.
I walk, and there are wonders,
two deer, twins perhaps
(you could almost miss them as you pass,
but there they are, in the grass)
their future mapped
or unknown,
become full-grown,
or decline
or killed by a hunter’s gun—
but now they recline,
unphased, in the waning sun.
Resting in the Park
Red Bank Battlefield
National Park, NJ
We see a play
of Cold War spies,
particle physics underlie
the everyday,
in lines it overlays,
a metaphor of surveillance
and life
assailants and strife—
the personal, the political
watch—it’s critical,
because we don’t always see–
there may be a twin,
or there may not be.
We can’t anticipate
what will come,
life is random—
the way a moth flits,
it darts and hits
this way and that
and you can’t be certain
what it’s doing
is it pursuing
or pursued?
This is how it should be viewed
(the scientist explains)
electrons are like that moth–
then so are our ideas
within our brains
unchained,
they fly,
and we can’t plan
where they’ll go
with the flow–
but, they might stop, sink, fly
no reason, no what, no why—
and on this equinox
we go falling
headlong into the next season
yes, there is reason, it’s time,
but it seems without rhythm or rhyme
one minute it’s warm, the next it’s cool
there seems to be no rule.
So, we move on, walk and talk
about the play we’ve seen
(Look up and around)
Victory Apartment Building, Philadelphia
Quince Street, Philadelphia
and
drink with cheer
our wine and beer
At Tria
and later the rain
comes again,
but we sleep soundly
to dream—un-profoundly–
while a cat softly snores,
and beyond our locked doors
and behind the clouded sky
the moon hums
to her own rhythm, and why
is unknown–just listen–
eternity in her lullaby.
Apparently, the Oracle has also seen Hapgood by Tom Stoppard. Of course, she knows everything.
We saw the Lantern Theater production.
To dark air
she could ask
dazzle the night.
Though she is fooled in the open
like this—
her heart
always listening,
only here you are–
and over there—
not magic,
but life
Morning Walk
Almost born away—
I fly by champagne clouds,
waking poetry
of morning’s moist perfumed breeze.
Angel voices celebrate the universe,
time slows. . .lingers
for one smile
Delaware Rive, Red Bank Battlefield, September
I visited the Oracle yesterday, but I didn’t have a chance to post this. She was in rare form though. I feel like she was ready to give me many more.
We lie on our backs on the wide green expanse between dorms. Soon we’ll be starting classes here–a future scary, uncertain, and suffused with what ifs. We’re filled with the ardor and fire of youth. But in this moment, we’re still and content, bodies grounded, yet spirits soaring as we watch the feathered clouds fly across the late summer sky. They’re blown by a wild wind miles above us. My boyfriend points out some constellations–the Big Dipper, Orion. I make a wish and send it sailing into the night.
River of heaven,
flowing light in ink-blue sea
carries dreams onward
Embed from Getty Images
This Haibun is for Frank’s Haikai challenge, using Milky Way (amanogawa), which he notes is an early autumn kigo. He says “the literal translation of amanogawa is ‘river of heaven.’”
And for Colleen’s Weekly Tanka Tuesday, using synonyms for vigor and energy.
And for dVerse’s Open Link night, where Mish is hosting.
Some words from Brian Geiger, editor of Vita Brevis, on finding true love–or at least a good match–for your poems.
by Brian Geiger
If you’re here, you may have read this (or something like it, elsewhere):
We appreciate your submission. However, we’ve decided that your work isn’t a good fit for Vita Brevis, and we won’t be publishing it. But don’t be dissuaded–very few of our poets have been published on their first try! Read over some of our work, make sure your submission meets our exact guidelines, and then choose a new batch that you deem relevant. We make these decisions based on theme- and style-based criteria, so don’t take it personally! Thanks so much for your contribution! We hope to hear from you again.
We’re rooting for you,
The Vita Brevis Team
That’s a rejection email. Chances are, your first submission to Vita Brevis earned you one of these. If that’s the case, you’re in a pool of about 75%. Or maybe I only accepted one poem of the five you sent in for…
View original post 1,140 more words
Three distinct rings– love, hope, faith
we watch, suspend our fears in the future
as clowns cavort and lions roar. will it be enough
Some walk a tightrope as the world tilts and whirls
waiting for applause, we want joy and laughter
but some hang in mid-air hoping there’s a safety net
still waiting to be caught knowing we may plummet
Edgar Degas, “Miss La La at the Cirque Fernando,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Sarah is hosting dVerse tonight, and she has asked us to write a poem about the circus. I am not really a circus fan, but to make up for that, I wrote this cleave poem, which is three poems in one. And then I found this Degas painting.
“It may be the luckiest and purest thing of all to see time sharpen to a single point. To feel the world rise up and shake you hard, insisting that you rise up, too somehow. Some way.”
–Paula McClain, Love and Ruin
“We can never go back to before”
Lynn Ahrens and Steve Flaherty, “Back to Before,” Ragtime
Once we had two maple trees in front of our house. They provided shade for our house and shelter for wildlife. But they were diseased and had to be cut down. The birds and squirrels have moved on. We will plant daffodils around the stumps, and life will continue, though we can never go back to before.
green leaves turn golden,
sun sings grey skies blue again,
flowers smile hello
Once people saw tyranny and began to rebel with acts of resistance against their government and king. Time sharpened to a single point for some then. They felt the need to rise up. They launched a revolution that was bloody and horrible, as all wars are, that divided families and friends.
sweethearts say goodbye
leaves sigh and fall from the trees–
red blood on white snow
Old Pine Street Church Graveyard, Philadelphia
But it was also a revolution of words and actions that created a new nation, the first written constitutions, and gave some hope for freedom and equality to all—though that did not come about till after another war and new laws. We harken back to before, but we can never go back.
And why would we want to?
demagogue appeals
blames “The Other” for problems–
false hopes and false words
Wishing on the wood of the last Liberty Tree. Museum of the American Revolution, Philadelphia
Azure skies send us
outdoors to eat–a plus
seated where we gaze
at history and listen
to the foreign phrase
of people who pass by
and wonder why
they’re here, but know
they come and go–
in this city of hope and despair
filled with travelers
and immigrants,
rising like the nation and the sun
on the famous chair.
We watch a movie,
the wife behind the great man,
though she’s really greater than
he is,
she says she is “a kingmaker,”
but more than that—
this is
a nuanced performance
that show the complexity
of relationships—
which is
the basis of government, too,
and I think of the before
when we had a king
and bid him adieu
and now the one
who longs to be king
daily sings
(so unbirdlike he tweets
never soft and never sweet)
Will we let the kingmakers
let it happen?
Well, as the foot-tapping
musical notes, “history has its
eyes on you.”
It is complex,
and perhaps what we need
is a nuanced performance.
Though the choice seems simple—
do what you need to do.
Do not believe the lies.
Do not support the liars.
Let’s not go back to before
when I did not have a voice,
when women did not have a choice,
when people I love could not love,
when people I admire could not vote—
keep this sinking ship afloat.
I feel time sharpening and shadows gather.
But ask the star
how it dazzles and
kisses air with joy—
We are prisoners of time,
embrace its rhythm
and smile.
Once there were two maple trees, but now they are gone. . .
yet life goes on.
We visited the Museum of the American Revolution. Saw the movie, The Wife. Trailer here.
Here is Marin Mazzie, who died last week, singing, “Back to Before.”
NGC 6744 Hubble, NASA, ESA, and the LEGUS Team
If we did not wake to lingered mornings
and flowers dancing to celebrate
a day opening,
voices with colored breath laughing
to heal the sad rhythm of haunted nights,
we would listen for stars’ fevered breath–
remember time sailing
The Oracle was full of words and wonder today.
