watch sky-show above
sing light language symphony
together through storms
we ache elaborately
gown’d by life and could have–but
The Oracle gave me a Tanka for Colleen’s Weekly Poetry Challenge. The prompt words were watch and voice. I substituted sing for voice–because you don’t argue with the Oracle. 😉
“Now I will do nothing but listen,
To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute
toward it.I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames,
clack of sticks cooking my meals,I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,”
–From Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
Beneath every cloud
watch this song bloom–
it is bright sun, wild wind,
moon murmuring peace–
ancient cycles breathe color and bloom
We gather in a flurry of hugs and kisses,
wings outspread,
bright with color,
like tropical birds
cooing and chattering
instead of trills or caws,
I hear the sound I love,
the sound of human voices
the sound of people I love
it is a moment to remember,
my mother’s 95th birthday brunch.
We celebrate with food and drinks
in a courtyard room,
doors open to a day of August beauty
we talk and laugh
(the sound of voices)
take photos
(the sound of groans and laughter)
we sing happy birthday
(the sound of music)
and eat the cake my daughter has baked and decorated
Afterward, we take my mother home
she comments on the length of my daughters’ dresses
and I laugh that she who is nearly blind can see this
and the “designs” on one daughter’s arms
We talk about art–
her famous artist cousin, Abe Hankins,
she points out his work on her walls,
he lived with her family for a time
and taught my teenage mother dances,
he had lived in Paris and brought French style and flair,
he wasn’t a starving artist because his wife supported him
(or so my mother says)
one daughter is enchanted by a photo of my mom with her cousins
when they were all young
my mother tries to remember a hospital she was in
when she a little girl with diphtheria
“well, it was ninety years ago,” she says
no sound of planes in the sky when she was young
no telephone in her house
parents who traveled by ship across a sea to live here
never to see their homeland again
war and peace
sounds of life and sounds of silence
fuse, follow, ancient cycle
breathe in
breathe out
we open presents,
more art,
this time from one daughter
a poem and cookies from me
all sounds running together
stemming, streaming from hearts full of love
We go home, change into PJs
eat again and watch TV
my sisters text me and my daughters–
“Can you believe I’m eating again?”
commenting on how my mom has–
well, her own sense of reality, sometimes
voices in our heads, voices on the screen
fusing together
time for dreams
The next morning, I wake to birdsong
it seems effortless and amazing
but what do I know?
bravura display, to my human ears
I go for a walk
listening to Hamilton
and almost dancing to the riverside
Sunday morning sunshine,
a little breeze
the end of summer,
autumn is on the way,
another cycle of the seasons,
the cicadas hum
the geese march, swim, fly, and honk
the flowers are blooming
(And I’m not throwing away my shot.)
all the sounds running together, combined—
birds and Broadway
In the afternoon, we go to a wine festival
taste wines
sample foods
eat the cheese and enjoy the day
enjoy each other
ancient cycles
time-bound and timeless
the sounds I love running together,
combined, fused or following,
the sound of nature
the song of myself
the song of all of us
echoing in my heart
blossoming
The Oracle seemed in tune with my weekend. We celebrated my mom’s brunch at Jerry’s Bar in Philadelphia, and we went to the Riverwinds Wine Festival in West Deptford, NJ.
A special shout out to Ken of Rivrvlogr of writes poetry, especially haiku and tanka, of nature and current events, and Robin of Witlessdatingafterfifty who takes photographs of her family and area of Ohio and write book reviews in verse. I truly appreciated that they both spent time going through my past blog posts yesterday. Check out their blogs!
Above aches
a black storm,
a live delirious show,
the wind heaves sea spray,
and less frantic, sleeps
Summer blossoms bright
after rain, vivid color
poetry grows wild
like love shining through the night,
rooted here, behold Eden
Yesterday was such a weird day–work, political stuff, and the world generally. Then late in the day, we watched the storm clouds roll in, followed by a weird golden sky–and a rainbow. I decided to consult the Oracle, who told it like it was, and even gave me a tanka.
© Merril D. Smith, 2017
And after coffee
in a perfume cloud haunting
words explore the joy
like a magic voice, almost
sacred, never away long
The Oracle gave me a Sunday morning tanka. I think it describes my creative process perfectly.
About my blue earth
moon in cycles shining
murmurs sweet harmony,
soft poetry,
(listen)
it wanders peacefully here and there,
beneath
between
a quiet secret breeze of ancient souls
and pure light blossom in color
It’s been a busy week. I needed this message from the Oracle.
Wake and embrace—
linger for a universe of morning
perfumed with coffee and color.
Picture this,
(my window, see?)
breathe the peace surrounding you and me,
flowering cool green
on velvet words almost to eternity
Today is our 39th wedding anniversary! I’m glad the Oracle came through with something nice, even if she sometimes messes up the spelling.
Yesterday morning we had thunderstorms with tornado warnings, but then the sun came out. Sometimes nature gives you a metaphor. Some of you know I’m past deadline on a manuscript for an encyclopedia, and that I’m now researching and writing a second chapter because a contributor did not come through with something I could use. It’s been quite a storm, but I’m embracing blue skies and velvet words today. 🙂
“Not knowing when the dawn will come
I open every door.”
–Emily Dickinson
In life a secret blossoms
beneath cloud and air
between dusk and dawn–
follow it
about wild river song
here,
but almost there
I read facts and statistics
documenting the evils humans do to one another,
then I read about the kindness of strangers
fighting hate and bigotry
helping others with words and gestures–
I spend days reading and writing
of hate and of human resilience
of the darkness that falls
and the light that comes
I spend days writing and reading
editing,
documenting evil–
and then I take a break
I write a poem
drink some wine
(bottled poetry)
and then some more
hug my husband, daughter, and cats
eat Pakistani food outside on a beautiful June night
I listen to the mockingbird
(sing )
I think about good and evil
and life’s secrets
blossoming like spring flowers
here
I wait for dawn to come
opening every door
till I am almost there
The Oracle gave me the opening.
Almost 30% of women have faced violence from an intimate partner. World Health Organization,
“Every 98 seconds an American is sexually assaulted.” RAINN
We drank wine at Heritage Vineyards “Vino and Vibes” and at Sharrott Winery’s Wine and Music Festival. We got take-out from Meera Khana restaurant, and the food was delicious, as always.
Do we remember poetry and desire, come eternity?
embrace old rhythms of green and lingering life,
a brilliant blush,
a fired heart—
listen to this blue salt ocean, Fool,
the angel said,
magic lies here, there, all about and after
it dances and laughs, surrounding you like perfume–
go breathe peace and heal
Caspar David Friedrich, “Northern Sea in the Moonlight,” 1823-1824 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
I’m in the midst of crazy writing and editing. The Oracle knew just what to say. I added some punctuation. I hope she doesn’t mind.
“And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.”
–William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 5, Scene 1
“The system here is rigid, strict, and hopeless solitary confinement. I believe it, in its effects, to be cruel and wrong. I hold this slow, and daily, tampering with the mysteries of the brain to be immeasurably worse than any torture of the body.”
–Charles Dickens, 1842
A prison taint was on everything there. The imprisoned air, the imprisoned light, the imprisoned damps, the imprisoned men, were all deteriorated by confinement. As the captive men were faded and haggard, so the iron was rusty, the stone was slimy, the wood was rotten, the air was faint, the light was dim. Like a well, like a vault, like a tomb, the prison had no knowledge of the brightness outside, and would have kept its polluted atmosphere intact in one of the spice islands of the Indian ocean.
–Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit
In the deep soft blue of night,
a full bright moon murmurs
which path would you stroll
always night
or beautiful dawn?
Would you breath the sweet air of ancient breezes?
I ponder mysteries of life and time,
the paths we choose, the where and when
the roads that make us who we are
the journeys that lead to discoveries,
do the words I write,
the forms of things unknown,
take flight across the world,
in a poetry chaos theory
to effect change?
One of my writer workout shirts.
I’m at a book fair,
I don’t sell many books,
my profits come from knowledge gained
or reaffirmed,
books have power,
the reason why slaves are not taught to read,
they release the minds of those bound by ignorance
they free those imprisoned by walls of stone
or by barricades of bigotry,
they build bridges of enlightenment,
people are drawn to them
in excitement, wonder, and surprise
I watch the boy’s eyes
open wide at the thought of reading magical adventures
then disappointment,
“My mom doesn’t have any money.”
“Today is your lucky day, says the author,
“I have something special,
a free book for you–
see, the cover is slightly damaged.”
He signs the book for the boy
who takes it,
holds it reverently,
a treasure.
I hope he remembers this moment.
West Deptford Township Book Festival. Yes, I did bake cookies, too.
My husband and I visit the art museum
not for any particular exhibition,
“Sunday at the museum,” someone says,
people there from all over the world
(even though the “Rocky Steps” are closed)
I hear many languages: French, Chinese, Russian.
We walk through the Impressionists,
see the real and surreal,
View from the Duchamp Gallery, Philadelphia Museum of Art
look at art and people,
adults and children,
viewed and viewers.
Reading at the Museum—Mary Cassatt, Family Group Reading (c. 1901) Philadelphia Museum of Art
We walk from the museum
across the Parkway to Fairmount
and on to Eastern State Penitentiary,
the world’s first penitentiary,
conceived with a purpose–
to induce penitence in its prisoners,
the original building completed in 1836,
though the process began earlier
with efforts to relieve the conditions of the Walnut Street Jail,
in 1787, Dr. Benjamin Rush founded a group to reform prisons,
The Philadelphia Society for Alleviating the Miseries of Public Prisons,
an organization that still exists,
the new penitentiary is thought to be humane,
a wonder of technology and innovation,
a central hub with spokes,
cells with plumbing and heat
designed by architect John Haviland,
but prisoners were cut off from human contact
and sometimes went insane.
Charles Dickens wrote of the torture of solitary confinement
and later the prison became too crowded for the concept to continue,
a second tier of cells was built
and prisoners shared cells.
We listen to actor Steve Buscemi
tell us about it in the audio tour,
we’ve been here before,
but it is good to be reminded,
and there are new exhibits we haven’t seen
there are other visitors and tour groups,
but when it is quiet, without other visitors around,
I feel the ghosts around me
there amidst the rubble
Prisoners
in dark fevered air
decayed concrete and old secrets,
a dirt home
listen to who was
they live not
but almost open,
in time
It is a reminder
of good intentions gone wrong,
yet there are traces of beauty and goodness,
even here,
the tales of good and humane guards
the art created by inmates,
the synagogue
The original synagogue door. (For my blogger friend, Robin.)
but still there are ghosts,
the imprisoned,
some died here,
and I have no answers for those who are imprisoned still
but I hope they have books and art
and that their minds can roam, even if their bodies cannot
do they wonder about the paths of their lives?
Which path would you stroll
always night
or beautiful dawn?
Would you breath the sweet air of ancient breezes?
Tonight I dream of wide-eyed boys
of beauty and art
amidst decayed walls
a cat purrs softly in my ear,
I am home, but my mind roams free.
The kind author was Ben Anderson, who shared a table with me at the West Deptford Township Book Festival at Riverwinds Community Center. His books are chronicles of Irish fantasy, targeted for middle grade readers, but suitable for “eight to eighty-eight” he says. You can read about them here .
We joke about the Magnetic Poetry Oracle, but she gave me this poem (incorporated above) the morning of the day we went to visit Eastern State Penitentiary. She also came me part of the opening.
You can find out more about Eastern State Penitentiary here. Here is an article on programs for prison literacy. And a list of additional resources here.
The Philadelphia Museum of Art is always worth visiting, even with construction going on.
We sojourn on between the moons
climbing full and white and bright and clear
but still the dark I feel is near
though here there is more luminous light
where comes the song of ancient sprites
wandering through shade, illuminating sight,
nearby, a diamond girl shimmers and glows,
ensorcelling face, radiant clothes,
her tongue sings music of forest and glen
urging spring and summer, again, again,
and time is endless here and always
with shadows splashed by sun-shining blazes
and roses bloom with sweet perfume
like golden apples of the sun, yet unconsumed
and gleaming, Earth seesaws now between beginning and done,
we’re dreaming, spindrift from slipstream, time’s run
Odilon Redon, Beatrice,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Day 29, WaPoWriMo. The penultimate day. The prompt was to take a word or phrase from a favorite poem, free associate, and then write a poem. I took some words and phrases from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle and went from there.
I’ve borrowed an image idea–using one that is similar to the one Jane Dougherty used in her dreamy vision–because I thought this golden Beatrice fit the poem. So thanks, Jane. 😉
