Through the water symphony
a blue ache
of shadow and moans,
a language recalling
within us
all time’s frantic urges
of why, never, and when.
Words from my Saturday visit to the poetry Oracle.
Tag Archives: Wonder
Hope Rises and Falls, Like Us All: NaPoWriMo, Day 2
Monday Morning Musings:
“Remember only that I was innocent
and, just like you, mortal on that day,
I, too, had a face marked by rage, by pity and joy,
quite simply, a human face!”From “Exodus,” by Benjamin Fondane, murdered at Auschwitz in 1944
“But where there’s hope, there’s life. It fills us with fresh courage and makes us strong again.”
Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl, June 6, 1944, written after Anne hears the news about D Day.
“I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness, I hear the approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us too, I feel the suffering of millions. And yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehow feel that everything will change for the better, that this cruelty will end, that peace and tranquility will return once more.”
Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl, July 15, 1944
This Passover—at least at the start,
my husband and I dine alone–
we’re on our own
for this Seder
(apart from the cats,
who join us later).
It’s been a strange week of that and this
things not quite right, a bit amiss–
the whole afternoon at the doctor for my mother’s hand
in a city office
(the building still grand)
The Franklin Building, 9th and Chestnut, Philadelphia
I look at my hands
starting to look like my mom’s
when did this change begin of fingers and palms–
these strange hands turned from mine to others
how did they become so much like my mother’s?
The weather turns from cool to warm
but still I feel the coming thunder, the storm—
I read about a French woman who survived hate and the camps,
stabbed by her neighbor to whom she showed only kindness–
but he was caught up in blindness
(of the soul)
if that is how we can characterize it all—
this hatred or fear,
we should remember her
not him,
for whom the bell finally tolled.
This climate of fear
seems to grow daily
the president goes on another Twitter rant
and I just can’t–
listen to him (sniff sniff) speak or chant
transplant
fiction in his supporters’ brains
(enough of them still remain)–
where and when does it end,
will it ever stop,
the firing of the latest shot,
the hate, the finding of scapegoats to label
the fear of the intelligent and able?
There’s fear in the air,
but does fear rise above hope?
Which is denser, which one floats?
We see a performance, a play
people forced together, every day
having to live in close quarters
annoying each other, parents, strangers, daughters,
dependent upon friends for food—
for everything
never permitted to go out
or glance through a window—or shout–
forced to be silent all day—
even chatterbox Anne must sit still and stay,
but she finds a way,
observing and recording
in her diary she writes,
somehow hope rising above despair
as if she’s gathered it from the air
“Think of beauty,” she writes,
and
“I still believe that people are really good at heart.”
Her writing, an art,
though she’s doing her own part
for the war effort, for after, for when life re-starts,
revising her words for the novel she hopes will one day be—
when the war is over—when they’re all free—
We know watching, that it is not to be,
and yet, still, I hope for a different ending,
one that ends without sending
them off in cattle cars to the East
to be treated worse than beasts
to die hungry, filthy, covered with lice,
wonder why she and others had to pay such a price—
would she then have written what she did–
as she slid
as if down a well
from hiding into Hell?
We celebrate miracles, the Exodus,
I’m not religious, but the history of us
of pogroms and hate at this time—
the crimes—
make me honor those who came before me
and who were not free
to celebrate or see—
here now–
a day of sun and clouds,
voices talking out loud,
the daffodils in bloom,
I hope they don’t disappear too soon.
Then a rainbow appears way up high
It seems magical, and though I’m cynical,
perhaps it is a Passover miracle,
whatever, it’s beautiful, I think,
and so, we eat matzah and drink
(more wine)
Passover Walnut Cake
and before desert, the full moon appears to hum in the sky–
filling me with wonder and whys
The human face,
if we could only see it
instead of looking at a space
feel—seek out!– the pity and the joy
but instead, we destroy.
Fifty years ago, this week, a man was killed
perhaps from him, some hope was spilled
“I have a dream,” he said,
but before long, he was dead.
He urged others onward in the fight
for justice, for light.
Anne Frank, a young girl, also died
her family, too, only her father survived.
she wanted to be remembered, a famous writer
and so, she is, with life gone and so much missed.
I don’t know that our future looks any brighter,
(Do you hear it? The wind carries their cries.)
and yet. . .when I look up at the sky
I still see the stars and moon, and then I sigh,
hoping their dreams will never die.
We saw, The Diary of Anne Frank at People’s Light in Malvern, PA.
This is Na/GloPoWriMo, Day 2. The prompt was to play with voice, but well, these are my musings. 🙂
Burning–Quadrille
She flies among the stars
burning with incandescent fire,
unbound by time or space.
She is and was and will be always–
made of what—of blazing rays,
of tomorrows and todays?
You may see her in the night–
perhaps. . . that streak of light.
Embed from Getty Images
This is a quadrille for dVerse. Victoria asked us to use the word burn.
Work, Wine, and Wonder
Monday Morning Musings:
“Seven to eleven is a huge chunk of life, full of dulling and forgetting. It is fabled that we slowly lose the gift of speech with animals, that birds no longer visit our windowsills to converse. As our eyes grow accustomed to sight they armor themselves against wonder.”
–Leonard Cohen, The Favorite Game (1963)
“Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth
I look at you, and I sigh.”
William Butler Yeats, “A Drinking Song”
I spend days writing,
then sighting and fighting
others’ dreadful prose,
I dream then,
want again,
wonder and poetry–
a moonship sleeps through time
dreaming of a glowing goddess
cool, with diamond eyes,
from her starry throne,
she lets a storm moan
and I,
seeing lights from the sky.
watch as mist sprays
plays melodies on garden stones
dances in the light,
a thousand fairies
diamond-eyed.
I spend days writing,
then sighting and fighting
more dreadful prose,
I watch a morning sparkle and gleam
and dream of conversing with the birds,
how it would be to sing their songs,
flowing thoughts and soaring words?
I wonder of what my slumbering cats dream
(perhaps nothing is what it seems).
Do cats and dogs, do cows
as they graze under the boughs
understand the birds’ songs
moo in harmony, sing along?
Conversing with birds
Conversing with me
I spend days writing,
then sighting and fighting–
again, that dreadful prose!
And I wonder
why is there such hate
that negates
joy, hope, and reason
that seasons
life with tears and fears?
Why men would rape out of boredom
(Boredom!)
and why a woman,
or a man,
need to be taught a lesson
stressing
what?
What lesson has been taught?
That someone has been caught or bought?
that life is fraught,
so do not dream of what you could be, or brought
about with books and words and second thoughts?
I wonder who could hurt a child,
can their minds ever be reconciled—
the dreadful deeds and daily doings,
the demons in their souls?
no controls, no goals
lives brutal and bleak
do, die, never speak.
Do they never dream of a goddess glowing
her tresses silver and flowing,
or wonder how to converse with a bird?
heard their songs in morning air
happy to be alive, aware?
Where does the wonder go?
Does anybody know?
I spend days writing,
then sighting and fighting–
yes, more of that dreadful prose,
correct the errors, insert a phrase
(my eyes glaze)
then I wonder—
isn’t it time for some wine?
so we go, sit near grapes in the sunshine,
enjoy the beauty of the day
stay
as chatter and music play
in waves around us.
We drink wine,
red and luscious
(no, don’t rush this)
loving it,
loving you
I lift the glass to my mouth
I look at you, and I sigh.
wonder how and why we found each other
created two astonishing daughters
enjoyed days of blues skies and laughing waters,
realize I have found the music and the poetry
in life, in you, in birds, and trees
And though I cannot sing with birds,
I can wonder, dream, and write these words.
The Scent of Wonder: Quadrille
The child peppered the sky with questions,
Why do my tears and the ocean taste salty?
Why does this plant taste like lemon,
but my cat smells like nutmeg?
A moon-breeze carried the scent of roses and wonder–
she understood then, everything is connected.
This is for dVerse. Kim has asked us to write a quadrille using some form of the word pepper in honor of the 50th Anniversary of the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
Hearing the Spirits Sing on a November Morning
In autumn’s quiet dawn,
shadows lurk, spirits between worlds,
they flit, dancing just out of sight
till light, when mortal forms wake,
and under an azure sky gaze in wonder
as glowing colors break.
The golden hues cannot be named,
nor explained,
but must be experienced and felt instead.
Nature is terrible and beautiful,
like the volcanic eruption,
with its fiery trails that end in destruction,
but the true miracle is the seed
once planted, sometimes with little more, proceeds–
growing, thriving, becoming food for body and soul,
still and all—
it’s up to you, to choose
to worship the volcano,
stand there as the hot lava flows
burying you, and us, and so it goes,
or plant the seed and watch it grow
and in the time before the dawn
and as the world turns in cycles and seasons
be glad for the choice, be happy for reason
as with the spirits dance in joy
though you may not see them anywhere
but know they sing in gentle breezes
and sun-kissed air that greatly pleases,
whispery sighs, floating cries,
“hope is better than despair.”
William Blake, Oberon, “Titania and Puck with Fairies Dancing,” [Public Domain), via Wikimedia Commons
