It careens through space—
failed star, the astronomers say,
ancient and cold, they name it, The Accident
because they don’t understand
how compelled, it searches for the light it knows is there
invisible and beyond our perception, like dreams,
constant, like time, endless, eternal.
A quadrille for dVerse using the prompt word careen. I wondered what careened through space and found this article about “The Accident.”
It began—after The Before. You remember?
When the world was colored with optimism,
primary colors and pastels, sun-spackled roofs, rose gardens,
blue skies? Even the winter ice sparkled with trapped starlight.
We went to work and school and shows,
traveling on buses and trains through the city.
I used to make up stories about the people we saw in the windows—
the little girl with the dandelion, the woman
who danced in a red dress? All those windows dark now.
Please say you remember.
Then cough by cough, the world turned greyer.
The flowers lost their brilliant hues, fragrances disappeared.
And the shadow people came.
They walked out of my dreams
to gather around the TV set–strangely drawn to it.
They follow me now, almost eagerly, like ghost puppies.
They have no faces, but they look like me. Haunted.
For Paul Brookes’ Ekphrastic Challenge, Day 14, I was inspired by all three works of art. You can read all the poems here.
For Paul Brookes’ Special January Ekphrastic Challenge, Day 9, I’m responding to “Ennui with eye “(KR) and “Ignore the real world forever” (MH).
I’m weary of the grey January sky–
the pewter-plated clouds simmer in gloom
but never warm, despite their chafing, and
their mumbling conversations drone on endlessly,
causing the wind to bite in reply. And I–
I want to ignore the real—this forever-frost that beckons
with a glistening smile, and then attacks with fierce lion claws,
pinking my skin, but
I want color,
bright red blooms and blue horses,
grazing on emerald grass. I want to wake
from a summer dream,
to a robin gathering golden rays into song.
For Day, I’ve written two poems for Paul Brookes’ Special January Ekphrastic Challenge.
I liked all three pieces of art, but I responding to Kerfe Roig’s “Clarity” and Christine O’Connor’s (CO13).
Clarity
Coming home from the ER, I felt
a sense of clarity amidst the exhaustion,
and in the over-awakened midnight hour, an owl hooted
over and over again
calling for love, not warning,
I decided. And for love, we returned to the hospital
as the sun rose over the bridge to light the shadowed city streets.
Unfinished
There are ghosts in the secret garden
drifting through the flowers’ birdwing-flutters,
she senses them, but they are masked, invisible
against the bright blooms, unfinished with this world,
outside of time, inside the walls, they wait.
Monday Morning Musings:
Ineffable,
the word lingers from my dream
almost visible–
how to describe
the dream state,
a word floats in the air—
almost visible,
liminal,
the world of in-between.
Ineffable,
the world today,
inconceivable
that we let it happen—
the naked emperor rules,
the fools see what they want to see
despite fire, plague
the flaming hate
and the ceaseless lies
rekindling the blood libel,
as the full moon hums fiercely
in warning, in horror
we look on,
but also,
ineffable
the beauty
of lunar shimmer
and morning glow
of herons
and deer
and the serenity of the river flowing on
carrying ghosts and memories,
in its currents
time bends, reflecting and refracting
the past merges with the future,
till it, too, is ineffable.
I did wake up today with the work ineffable floating in my head. We didn’t go anywhere this week, but historian Heather Cox Richardson’s Letters from an American email today reminded me of all the events that have happened within the past week—”It was only last Sunday– seven days ago– that the New York Times released information about Trump’s taxes. Since then, we’ve lived through Tuesday’s debate and the wildfire spread of coronavirus through the inner circle of the White House, along with other stories that would have crippled any other administration but that now pass by with hardly a ripple.” My morning walks and talking to loved ones is keeping me sane.
We ordered Chinese food this weekend and watched two Merril movies: I’m Thinking of Ending Things (on Netflix) and A White White Day, an Icelandic movie available to rent on Amazon Prime and other platforms. I liked both of them more than my husband did, but they are both movies I’m still thinking about. The actor who plays the main character in A White White Day is so compelling, and his granddaughter is very cute. I’m Thinking of Ending Things, is a Charlie Kaufman film, so if you’ve seen his other movies, you know this will not be straightforward. There’s also a connection to Fargo, the TV show, not the movie. Jessie Buckley who plays the young woman in the movie, is in the new season, and her co-star, Jesse Plemons, was in an earlier season, as was David Thewlis, who plays his father. We’ve watched the first two episodes of the new season of Fargo, which is set in 1960 Kansas City, and we both like it so far.
I’m hosting dVerse today, so I’ll be back later. 😏
Here’s a another blue river shot for Liz.
Glowering
clouds reflect my mood,
shadows cast
on river
rolling to the sea, endless
cycles streaming throughout time
creating
stormy skies and light
untamed and
magical
the appearance of a deer
like a gift to me,
like nature
answering a call,
now a need,
now the light.
I walk on, heart more joyful,
the river flows on.
A shadorma sequence for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, using synonyms for character and wild. This was inspired by a walk I took yesterday.
The morning moon hummed fiercely today in the heat. I will be staying inside and taking work breaks to read Issue 2 of Black Bough Poetry, “Lux Aeterna” –Eternal Light. It is filled with tributes to Apollo 11–breathtaking poems and wonderful artwork. Please do take a look.
I am thrilled to have two poems in this issue, “Moon Landing” and “Dark Matter.” Thank you to editor Matthew M C Smith (no relation, though my husband has some Welsh ancestry. . .) for selecting my poems and for editorial suggestions on “Dark Matter.”
These are the grown puppies mentioned in “Moon Landing”–a bit blurred, like a memory.
Golden goslings scuttle in a line
mother’s wings point, they align,
hustling to the river.
Father hisses at the stranger
–any possible source of danger—
parents are the givers
protecting their young
with honks, squawks, or tongue,
till from the river
fledglings fly away—
in time, somewhere, someday
Lillian is hosting Open Link Night at dVerse. This is a quickly written poem inspired by a walk I took this afternoon at the park by the river. I hope it’s not too treacly, but the baby geese were so cute, and I was fascinated by the family drama. I watched the goose I’m calling the mother shoo the babies towards the river. The father then hissed at one who was off exploring on the sidewalk to get with the others (you can see there are three on the grass, but four in line). The father then hissed at the other goose standing on the sidewalk, as the little ones went under the fence, and their mother then limboed under it, too. The father stood guard until they were all in the water.
“Forever—is composed of Nows—”
–Emily Dickinson, Full Poem here.
“N. A. Sumanapala, a shopkeeper near St. Anthony’s Shrine who said he had run inside to help, said: “It was a river of blood. Ash was falling like snow.” New York Times, April 21, 2019.
A week of explosions
flowers, storms, shots, and lies
bombs belie the façade
of Easter calm and Passover why
(is this night different from all other nights?)
Rivers of blood
with no miracle to part
falling of ash
unresurrected, fighting stops, starts–
A plague upon both your houses
Of indecision and more lies
as the First Citizen cries
in confusion,
“No collusion!”
His followers cheer
not caring, or unclear
that he would destroy
all that they hold dear,
so they support and worship
their false idol. Rejoice
in the new normal, hate
the latest whipping boy.
I cook, wrapping myself
in almonds, dates, and honey.
The house is sunny,
scented with cinnamon
like the cat, who slumbers sun-sided
Passover Almond Cake
The pink moon rises
we drink the first glass of wine, recline.
We are free, but refugees detained
chained, their children abused–
and we all lose–
Let all who are hungry come
We watch movies of
women hiding secrets
sometimes in plain sight
in poetry and stories,
sometimes driving in the night
to obligations, demands
and longing
for uncharted territories.
Certain women
holding together
waiting, still in a man’s world.
often unrecognized–
we place
an orange on the Seder plate,
to recognize, no longer erased.
We talk,
walk through city streets,
footsteps, heartbeats,
statues and stories,
petrichor replaced
with the scent of blooms
filling the air with their perfume, a trace
lingers in my mind.
A week of explosions
flowers, storms, shots, and lies—
all the endless ifs and whys–
and yet, my heart thrills
at the sight of the spring tide
with waves of flowers,
creating bowers
while the robin’s trills—
and we remember
forever is composed of nows.
Red Bank Battlefield Park, April 2019
Day 22, NaPoWriMo challenges us “to write a poem that engages with another art form.” My Monday musings always engage with the world around me through photos, and often movies or shows we’ve seen–so to an extent–I’ve met the challenge.
We watched the movie Certain Women on Netflix. We watched Becoming Astrid (about Swedish author Astrid Lindgren, the author of Pippi Longstocking and other books) on Amazon Prime, once I figured out how to turn on the subtitles. We saw the new movie, Wild Nights with Emily about Emily Dickinson in the theater. I liked all three movies.
I’m so thrilled to have two poems up in the first issue of Wellington Street Review. It is “a new quarterly journal specialising in creative responses to the past. ” This entire issue looks fabulous. I appreciate the editorial kindness and dedication of those involved with this publication–so wonderful to work with them–and I thank them for publishing my poems The Pogrom and In Memoriam: Their Names .
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 
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