Birds on a wire
like thoughts coming together,
resting before flight–
the pause,
rhythm in a sentence
in the secret language of birds,
forming patterns in circles and lines,
gliding on wind currents,
soaring into the clouds–
and I watch, wondering
what it’s like to rise so high
without fear of falling?
Crows in flight at Red Bank Battlefield, July 2020
For dVerse,where Laura has asked us to write about flight. I’ve reworked some old poems. . . a work in progress perhaps.
In shadow dreams,
the moon whispers, honey-voiced,
of wonders and if
love comes like a summer storm
embrace it–
but bring a cat–
and champagne–
for time circles
haunted by almost and never—
through open windows—look, listen
as the universe laughs
in sparkling light
a spray of diamonds on velvet,
beyond reach, but constant.
It took some time to get my message from the Oracle today–though she was very clear about the cat and champagne.
“There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable. . .
There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is a grace too powerful to name. . .
It’s quiet uptown”
-Lin Manuel Miranda, “It’s Quiet Uptown,” Hamilton
“The atoms that huddled for a cosmic blink around the shadow of a self will return to the seas that made us.
What will survive of us are shoreless seeds and stardust.”
–from Maria Popova, Figuring.
No human voices break the silence,
but robins and mockingbirds sing, a woodpecker pecks,
crows caw wise warnings, geese honk greetings
I hear a whoosh above and a shadow flits before me, gone
my own shadow remains, long-legged, invincible goddess–
if only,
she could push away the unimaginable,
the suffering, the families who will never hear a familiar voice.
She can’t. I can only I look for beauty and share
the way sunbeams sift through early morning clouds,
the astounding variety of flowers in a multiplicity of hues,
rainbows revealed in sprinkler sprays, the sight of a deer family
the charcoal splendor of thunderclouds, the intense blue of the cloudless sky,
color and light, physics and magic, charm and fury—
life itself, cycling love and loss,
we never imagine, don’t expect
plagues, freak accidents, revolutions—
we push away these thoughts
because to do otherwise, we could not go on
and on, we go,
craving life, survival
seeds of hope sprouting in unlikely conditions
growing, reaching for light,
for grace
The tenacity of plants. Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield, July 2020. ©️Merril D. Smith 2020
perhaps unimagined,
silence can be comfortable;
it can be lonely, too–
equal and opposite reactions,
we’re pushed and pulled
from the womb to ashes and dust
we ebb and flow
like the tides of river and sea
and yet traces of us survive forever
in shoreless seeds and stardust—
this is the unimaginable magic of the universe—
that in the sparkle of light on water
the past and future exist together,
holding love, loss
and hope.
Delaware River
Merril’s Movie/Theater Club: We watched the Taiwanese movie A Sun (2019, Netflix). I don’t know if it’s the same in Mandarin, but in English, the title plays on the words sun and son. The movie is about family dysfunction and tragedy; the favored golden son who is working towards entering medical school and the younger son who predictably ends up in juvenile detention. But each member of the family has secrets and depths. After a tragedy, the family dynamics change. Though this movie is perhaps a bit too long, the acting is excellent, and the cinematography is beautiful.
Whitall House with a tree decorated for the Fourth of July. Red Bank Battlefield ©️Merril D. Smith, 2020
We celebrated Independence Day, the Fourth of July by watching Hamilton (Disney+). I don’t know if this is available outside the U.S. I subscribed to Disney+ for a month just for this, which was a bit annoying, but I don’t plan to keep it, since there’s not much else I’m interested in on that platform. Still, at $7 and change, it’s worth it. We’d pay more for a movie ticket at a theater. This film is compiled from two performances of the original Broadway cast production, but it includes camera angles that you would never see from sitting in the theater. I’ve discussed Hamilton before. Believe all the hype, it really is a wonderful show, and most likely I’ll watch it again while I can.
The excerpted lyrics above are about after Alexander Hamilton and his wife Eliza’s son Philip is killed in a duel. Alexander and Eliza have been estranged, but in this aftermath of their personal tragedy, they grow close again. Life goes on in the midst of revolutions and tragedies—people fall in love, babies are born, children die. History is never simply about battles and elections.
We ate and drank a glass to freedom (that’s a glass of sangria, banana chocolate chip cake with cream cheese frosting) Ricky was not interested in the first act, but enjoyed the second half. 😏
Odilon Redon, “The Muse on Pegasus”
Born in a dazzle of smoke and ice,
time travelers dancing to the rhythms of the universe,
their songs hold secrets, a symphony un-tongued,
but felt and heard in the wind–
of life, death,
and a longing for love—
the music of lust and light,
why, and if only—
we turn away, when we should linger,
waiting for the storms to end,
and watching for dawn to come, laughing
waking the morning blooms.
My Saturday collaboration with the Poetry Oracle.
Delaware River at West Deptford, NJ May 2020
Beneath dark clouds
if climbs, happy and wild,
bright flowers, shining sun-gold
as ancient river breezes rustle with why, which, when–
the seeds of deep time that grow from cold earth, warmed,
following moon song and spring’s light
to blossom here, now
I cast a soul-stone into the blue-grey water,
watch the soft rippling and listen to the wind sigh.
Wildflowers
The Oracle knows everything, including all about my almost daily morning walk and mourning ritual of throwing a stone into the river as I stop for a moment and think about my mom.
I am not ready for anything to happen,
I never am—
but I am not a bird or tree
with naked branches covered
now in tender yellow-green, newborn
reaching skyward,
like toddlers wanting to be held—
but we stand back,
admire from a distance
the wispy clouds
caught by unseen winds, drifting —
I am drifting–
not ready, I’m not, never am,
but look—
that blue, that white, that yellow and green,
dancing on a robin’s song.
I am not ready,
anything can happen.
It can, it has, it does–
but look again,
the pink moon rises,
and soon will come the dawn.
Pink Moon, 2020
The NaPoWriMo prompt for Day 8 is to use a line from a poetry bot. I used a line from the Sylvia Plath Twitter Bot. The line, the first line of my poem, actually comes from her poem “Three Women.” My poem has nothing to do with her poem—I simply used the line.
I apologize for being so behind in reading. So many prompts, and so much poetry–which is a good thing! Tonight is the start of Passover, and we had a family emergency this afternoon (everyone is OK).
Away the bitterness of aching hearts,
the shadowed mist of fears
that cycle with brown and blossom
with dreams of honey-gold
as you watch the moon glow silver after spring storms
gust with purple fury
and grey clouds sail across the indigo night sea
till the sun rises—
now you can almost smell the scent of peaches
in her rays, hear the tinkling bell-voices of jonquils
sensing if. . .breathing,
beating in the heart of today.
Today’s message from the Oracle. The world is very scary now and filled with hate and ignorance, but at least there are spring flowers that rise predictably from bulbs year after year.
Odilon Redon, “Béatrice”
“All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.”
–Edgar Allan Poe, “A Dream Within a Dream”
In a dream, I found you
there, not as I knew you,
but aglow,
your spirit gilding your face,
and through the mist,
you reached, took my hand,
and gazed at me with sea-green eyes
and led me to a sailing raft
and there reclined with me.
Then, under blossoming clouds–
scarlet, gold, and sapphire–
we sailed into the infinite,
a thousand tomorrows waited.
But I awoke,
my face salty only with tears
and longed to sleep
and dream again and again
and forever of you.
Odilon Redon, “Flower Clouds”
Lillian has asked us to write a poem about dreams at dVerse today. I think I probably write about dreams often, but these two paintings popped into my head. Can you have an ekphrastic poem based on two sources?
The world is sad and broken,
clouds of smoke rising
and the voices of trees lost.
(Say not forever.)
Still I listen for the secret rhythm
of stars and moon
and watch the sun rise
brilliant fire in the sky
lighting our days,
reminding us of if and when
the universe is born and dies,
again and again–
and yet, the flowers bloom in spring
(until they don’t)
and their perfume rises
in morning’s smile.
My collaboration with the magnetic poetry Oracle. She always seems to know what is and what might be.
Look up! Vultures just hanging out. Hidden in plain sight. National Park, NJ.
“. . .for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.”
― George Eliot, Middlemarch
“I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars”
–Walt Whitman, #31 from “Song of Myself”
“It may diminish some our dry delight
To wonder if everything we are and do
Lies subject to some little law like that;
Hidden in nature, but not deeply so.”
The sun is hidden behind the clouds,
the images waver through a wet wall,
and the world is dark, dreary, until the charcoal clouds part
through the droplets, a ray of bright hope–
colors arc across the sky,
and in that magic moment
my spirits lift, not forever, but enough
there, hidden behind the gloom
there is beauty, beneath the sleepy despondency,
there is hope, joy, love.
We walk through Old City streets,
bones beneath our feet, hidden
ghosts walk with dry leaf rustle.
We see their reflections
in the end of the year.
Curtis Center Building, Philadelphia, December 31, 2019.
The year turns, a page reflected
(we reflect)
in the late afternoon sun-glow
as couples take their vows,
beginning a new life
We see a movie,
a hidden life,
but reflect upon so many hidden lives
at that time, in this time–
time flows faster
towards what?
We travel east,
the sun setting behind us
announcing the year is ending,
a new year about to begin.
From a Patco train, crossing the Delaware River from Philadelphia to New Jersey. December 31, 2019.
We eat Chinese food,
watch a musical of hidden lives
danced into acceptance
in boots—
kinky boots. Well, why not?
Why not? And why–
do leaders deny and lie?
foment hate?
The world burns
hidden beneath smoke and rage
are flower bulbs,
seeds of hope.
If we destroy the world
perhaps something better will come,
rising over our hidden bones
buried, like secrets
of family and history
in tombs sealed and forgotten
someday to be uncovered
to live again
perhaps in legend or song.
I find a recording of Yiddish songs
hidden in plain sight in my mother’s bookcase.
She is calmed by old, familiar melodies
as we sort and pack her belongings,
much of her past now hidden (treasures)
buried in time, tossed aside in many moves
“I’m reduced to one room,” she says
almost in tears,
saltwater, like the sea
from which we sprang,
the work of the stars,
their light and songs carrying us on
Starlight, starbright,
I wish tonight.
Hope buried, sometimes found, like that piece of bread that drops into the fondue pot.
Merril’s Movie Club—So many movies; so little time! We saw A Hidden Life, Terrence Malick’s latest. It was beautiful, like all of his movies—and well, you have to accept and go along with the meandering pace. It is based on a true story, and while I admire someone who sticks up for his convictions– and it is difficult not to see present-day parallels—I also was not certain what his objections actually were. At one point, he says he doesn’t know if Hitler is evil. Um, what? And though he suffers for not signing a paper giving allegiance to Hitler, the war does not really seem to touch the beautiful village in the clouds. I liked how the movie showed all the hard work the women do on their farm, but everyone seems well-fed while the war is going on. Yes, this man stood up for his undefined objections, but places were being bombed, people were sent to concentration camps, and other horrors were going on.
Last night we watched I Lost My Body.It’s a French animated film about a severed hand looking for its body. I know that sounds weird and creepy, but it’s surprisingly moving, as we learn about the young man’s life. I never thought I’d be rooting for a hand.
On New Year’s Eve, we watched a Broadway production of the musical Kinky Boots that I had recorded when PBS’s Great Performances ran a few weeks of Broadway shows in November. It’s great fun, and it was perfect for New Year’s Eve. (If you’re a Passport member you can see it.)
We’re almost finished with a Turkish show on Netflix called, The Gift. We’ve enjoyed it—an artist who draws strange symbols teams up with an archeologist to uncover family secrets and legends from the past.
And finally–a shout out to my cousin, David Lesser! His story, Bodies at Rest, was made into a Chinese movie. I don’t know how it will be distributed, but it’s an action movie, set in a morgue in Hong Kong, and it opened an Asian film festival. Trailer here.
