Traces of wine on clay shards, residue of the past, a history of migration, cultivation–civilizations that rise and fall. Transition and transformation– chemical processes and time, the call
of ancient frescoes, where long ago dreams still live enshrined, the stories of people and place– the grapes, the gods, the snakes, and banquet plates, a bird perched just so, and for a moment—there—it sings.
I heard it.
Through the grapevine trellis, in an enoteca now, the sun’s heavy golden face peeks then goes, as it did that day in Pompeii before the darkness fell in clouds of ash, rock, and a river of lava flowed, burying wine and dreams.
And yet—the artist’s vision lasted– a woman gazes down at me, the scent of garum in the air, birdsong in the background—and I taste centuries in a glass.
I’m sharing this for dVerse’s Open Link Night, where Lisa is hosting. I missed Lillian’s “birthday prompt” on Tuesday. She asked us to “go to the website https://mybirthdayhits.com and plug in your birthday. There’s a spot in the upper right-hand corner of the site for you to enter your birthdate. Have fun scrolling down the years, seeing what the #1 tune was on each of your birthdays. Pick at least one of the song titles that hit the charts at #1 on your birthday – one that resonates with you – and use it in its exact wording within your poem.”
“I Heard it Through the Grapevine” was one of the top songs on my birthdate. I’m not sure that the line really works in the poem, but that’s what revision is for. I actually do love the direction the title sent me in—which actually fits what Lisa had to say about hidden things and art, and also fits a larger project I’ve been working on. There are more frescoes here.
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.
Summer sings on robin trill, soars on broad-flapped egret’s wing across the river’s wide expanse, explodes on thunderclap, and floats on driftwood under a laden, leaded sky.
The clocks tick tock, go and stop, but time ripples, bends, and plops, to circle through stars and seasons.
Where’s the early promise gone, and why? The river doesn’t answer, merely flows with time
in rabbit hops and turkey trots, in smooth deer grace or hawk’s lazy circling trace across the clouded sky–
the slow descent of morning moon, her song a sigh, carried high by crow, who never shy, announces to the world that summer is almost done– but not quite
whispers the butterfly. I flutter and create a storm, it circles round, and flowers born—
so, life goes on through seasons fast or plodding, you remember both tears and laughter— the sorrow of loss, the joy of what comes after— memories flavored by love and friendship—savored– reflections from the past.
This and That: We’ve had a particularly muggy summer—high dewpoints and humidity (as I write, the dewpoint is 73 and the humidity is 93%). Our air conditioner has been running nearly continuously for the past month. We have another chance of thunderstorms this afternoon. However, we are not facing a hurricane. My thoughts are with friends in New Orleans.
On Tuesday, we went to Valley Green Inn by the Wissahickon Creek. It was my mom’s birthday, and we used to take her mom there for her birthday, until she couldn’t manage it. It was a very hot day, but quite pleasant eating on the porch shaded by the woods. Then we took a walk on Forbidden Drive. On our drive to Valley Green we listened to an interview on the radio with a man who held the marvelous job title of Curator of Timekeeping. He’s written a history of clocks.
Yesterday, we went to a wine festival (Wine Down the Summer at Riverwinds). We’ve attended it in previous years, though it was not held last summer because of the pandemic. We did not do any tastings, as we were not certain about weather or crowds and didn’t want to purchase expensive tickets we wouldn’t use, but we bought wine, brought food, and so, we spent the afternoon with dear friends eating (a lot), sipping wine, talking, and listening to the band. It was a lovely afternoon.
Some of my friends might enjoy Jennifer Ryan’s The Kitchen Front, a novel about a cooking competition sponsored by a BBC radio program during WWII. Like her other books, which I also enjoyed, it’s a sort of cozy historical novel. I really liked it—feel-good, but not sappy.
“A charming tale that will satiate a lot of different tastes: historical fiction lovers, cooking competition fans, anyone who revels in girl-power lit. . . . . This story had me so hooked, I literally couldn’t put it down to cook.”—NPR
Most of you know we watch and enjoy some pretty quirky shows and movies with subtitles, if you do, too, you might enjoy Post Mortem, a new Norwegian dramedy on Netflix. It was fun–only 6 episodes, but hopefully a second season is in the works.
And the new Netflix show The Chair with Sandra Oh is also lot of fun—we watched it in two nights. You can tell I have eclectic tastes: we’re still watching Dexter, and I’m also re-watching Downton Abbey on Netflix (Mary and Matthew engaged again, swoon).
The earth murmurs ancient heart-songs. Hear them in root-rush and rock-rhythms tapped by sea-spray rainbows. The eagle’s whistle slices the peached-tipped clouds– life and death balanced. Hand-in-hand, we watch the light glide through love-grief fault lines, as the ghosts dance at the river’s edge.
A quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words) for dVerse where De asks us to use the word heart. I could have gone in so many directions!
I don’t ask the moon for what she cannot give, enough her silver gleam on fields and streams, the night-shadowed things that vanish in dawn’s rose-petal glow. I know the universe’s music and light go beyond the who and when, circling through time’s beginning and its end– but if I stop to sit– even when the wind urges me to go— I’ll watch the clouds wing across the sky– egret white and heron grey– and here, I’ll dream of you.
My poetic collaboration with the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.
Who wants to watch the time? The sun whispers, her hot-petaled head sweating light. Together we soar into the beyond. And if I ask about purple storms and darkness, she only sings of golden rays, and if I ask about after, she murmurs of the dawn in rose-colored poetry, trailing a feathered sigh. She is an ancient wanderer. I follow her through shadows not remembering before, only this timeless circling.
The Magnetic Poetry Oracle gave me most of the words right away today. She may have been watching the eclipse this week.