Repeated History

Marc Chagall, Death

Repeated History

In this place,
the mothers speak a bitter, blooded language,
their whispers of why carry through forests
and over mountains to the cool blue seas
they can only picture

but imagine following clouds
in sublime harmony, as if the air breathed
hope

at night they listen for the moon’s song
as she recalls light–

it is there
somewhere in time,
above, beneath, around, floating like
the fiddler’s tune, leading them to sanctuary
in a bright bird-dawn.

The Oracle’s Original set gave me words of doom and violence (but also the moon, fiddle, and light), while the nature set, gave me words of peaceful beauty. Both sets gave me “if.” I thought of Ukraine as I began writing, but also what is going on all over the world as authoritarian rule is growing, and how such things have happened over and over again.

Unanswered Questions

Marc Chagall, “The Fiddler,” 1912

Unanswered Questions

If hearts can feel joy,
why do theirs not wish it for all?
Tiny objects full of fear, they trust fake wizards,
sing of better times in out-of-tune voices,
and wait endlessly for their gardens to bloom.

Like a dream,
the fiddler plays and the rain stops—
is he man or god?
If the moon shines through the mist,
and the sun lights the sky at dawn, does it matter?

Imagine a bee buried in a frosted world,
would it wake to buzz through fertile fields
in some ever-after cycle of bright blue, gold, and green
to hear the grass rustle and birds sing—
what if?

The Oracle kept giving me stanzas that were separate but not different enough to be a Cadralor. I think these three stanzas work together though.

Behold Peace There

Marc Chagall, Death

Behold Peace There

Look! There, the blooded death ships sail.
Cry. Recall in dream whispers the mother-roses
once languid, once luscious, now storm-blown
by withering winds—

but sea-gowned blue, the earth revolves,
above, the moon sings,
and the fiddler sprays the night sky
in echoes of the stars,

an exhale—we hear when–
the breath of time
circles with if.

My poem from the Oracle. It’s a collaboration, but the title comes directly from the her.

Say How Spring Soars

Marc Chagall, La Guerre

Say how spring soars pink-winged
after the storm,
and moonlight whispers dreams
of if
we could or never did,
we urged the sky, believed the lies

of roses. The forest screams
under clouds of rust,

and we must boil water
again
there are no more gardens or birds–
here the red-breasted man flies
and then is still

beneath the blue, endless as time
recalling the diamond sparkle above
is long dead, yet seen and heard,
like the fiddle’s aching notes, a reminder
of sorrow and beauty,
when spring sang in pastel notes of joy
and raised green tendrils to embrace the world.

My poem from the magnetic poetry Oracle. Yesterday we had a beautiful spring day. Now it’s raining, and we’re expecting some snow and strong wind gusts. Right now a mockingbird is singing outside my window. And the war in Ukraine continues.🌻 There are many organizations trying to get assistance to Ukraine. Please help, if you can. Here is one list. Here is a link to a book of poetry put together by Annick Yerem available for a donation.

Songs of Sky and Dreams

Marc Chagall, “The Fiddler,” 1912

First the storm—a black dragon’s fire-roar,
swept away on fiddler’s notes,
scattered by an owl’s wings whoosh
across a blood red moon.

Sleep brings memories of forgotten tongues
lost to when

and if I can hear them, why don’t I understand

how here above the garden, the sky sings pink,
and honeyed-light falls in a spray,

a perfect moment that cannot last–
yet still I sense the echoes.
like a laugh remembered from a dream.

My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. I have been having some vivid dreams lately. . .

We Ask Why

Marc Chagall, Le Violiniste Bleu (The Blue Fiddler)

What if time sails like a ship—
sometimes still, sometimes striking rocks—
We recall the honeyed glow of before, watch shadows
born in moon-whispers grow–as after,
we sleep to the fiddler’s song, blue notes sprayed
into the night sky. The moon hums dreams of mother-love,
a thousand girls and boys smile. We ask why–
but there is this.

My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. She’s in a reflective mood.

Chants and Beats

Marc Chagall, Le Violiniste Bleu (The Blue Fiddler)

Moonlight kisses the sea
an almost embrace, whispering if
but for the shadows of time in the cool blue—

through the brilliant champagne clouds
light wakes those who ache,
heart-haunted
asking for flower-breath breezes,
born in the blush of star-fire,
the rhythmic poetry of earth and sky
laughing—

I dream of honeyed words, drifting
like rose petals, the fiddler surrounding us with magic,
as the sky smiles a secret, and in the flutter of a wing,
we forget and remember and forget

the beat of before, the chant of after,
the song of forever and always.

The Magnetic Poetry Oracle gave me this poem today.

Ask What They See: NaPoWriMo, Day 3

Marc Chagall, The Blue Fiddler

The moon sighs and sings, a luscious silver spray in blue,
the fiddler plays along, repeating feather trills,
the universe’s secret smiles–

now watch the ghosts dance, bird-winged, eternal–
or almost–

and ask what they see,
and if they dream, or
revel in argent glow,

their hearts recalling when and never, before
shadows and the afterlight of a thousand stars in song.

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt asks us to create a “Personal Universal Deck,” a card deck of words. I like the idea of creating my own word deck, but today I’m basing my poem on words from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. We have a standing Saturday date to collaborate, and I wouldn’t want to upset her. 😏

Would You?

Chagall, The Blue Fiddler

How is your life a language
of whispered dreams? Aches and honey
beneath the tiny thousand lights, crushed diamonds
shining to recall the delirious dazzle of before

~and if~

you could ask the fiddler
to play pink-petaled spring, would you?
And hold the sky still, timeless
for a moment, black blown away, birdsong rippling blue.

Another puente from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. She knows spring is coming, and she was crying out for a blue painting. I almost went with Franz Marc, but this Chagall fits so perfectly.

When Winter Goes and Spring Arrives

She hums with cool beauty,
her whispered notes a silver stream
where trout-stars swim, or so I dream–

roof-fiddler in sky-blue; red-dawn’s flight
through charcoal-grey, the sight
of honeyed light

as winter goes, and now–
flowers color-pop their petal-heads, stand
to say hello

For Quadrille Monday at dVerse, where De asks us to use some form of the word go in a poem of 44 words.