Drought

There is no rain. The leaves are brown
and curled, and crisp at their extremities,
the pastures dried and hard. The cows
are eating winter hay. Midsummer’s breeze
stirs up the dust, then sets it down
again, unchanged: a lesson in futility.

What shall we do? We who are here
in this dry place, where furrows etch our skin
and blood we spill is swallowed by the air
look to the west, and to the west again
for signs of storms which don’t appear.
No clouds are gathered on this horizon.

Anxiety and fear well in our throats.
Brittle as grass, the crushing weight
of our insufficiency swamps our hope
and builds our supplication for our fate.
As if our prayers will make rain less remote,
as if we can do anything but wait.



A super-rough draft. Hope all who read this are well.
Peace.

Nothing Random

The (cato) prompt at Poetry Thursday this week was to use the 'randomizer' - their spiffy random prompt generator - to jump start a poem for the week. I got as far as using the randomizer, but my week got crazy and the poem is still in progress. I like where it is going, so I do plan to share it, but it just wasn't ready in time for this week.

Instead, I offer a haiku I wrote as a fifth-grade student at outdoor education. Please don't forget to check out what other PTers have been up to this week as well. Thanks!


Fossils, so unique
Indentations of the past
on our minds today

Turning Flower Beds in Spring

This week was a 'free' week at Poetry Thursday. Since I so enjoyed experimenting with forms last week I decided to do it again. Dana and Liz, see what you have wrought? So, here's my terzanelle about how I spent my time last weekend. Comments gratefully accepted; I feel like I am struggling with meter.

Oh - please don't forget to check out what other PTers have been up to this week.



Turning Flower Beds in Spring

Haul rotted leaves out to the compost bin.
Old husks must go – it’s time – their gift has passed,
so clear the way for new growth to begin.

No, nothing in the earth is meant to last
forever. Seasons always change and these
old husks must go. It’s time. Their gift has passed

into the roots. They nurtured and released
their essence: birth from death, the pulse of life.
Forever, seasons always change and these

things still remain. So ply the pruning knife
without remorse. Move on; you will not scar
their essence. Birth: from death, the pulse of life

returns. Breathe in the damp and fecund air
to taste the promise waiting to roar forth.
Without remorse move on. You will not scar

the heartwood. See? Strip out the old, the coarse;
haul rotted leaves out to the compost bin.
To taste the promise waiting to roar forth,
just clear the way for new growth to begin.

the not-so-villainous villanelle

The (cato) prompt this week at Poetry Thursday was to write a villanelle. Now, I have *never* tried to follow a poetic form before (except for one fifth-grade haiku) and I was a little apprehensive, given all the comments about how villainous the villanelle can be. To my surprise, I loved it! I felt that the constraints of the form helped me to push myself a little more; that perhaps I wasn't satisfied as quickly as I might otherwise have been. I will be writing more of these and will be trying other forms as well. Stay tuned!

Two notes: Jessica’s piece on villanelles mentioned iambic pentameter; other research I have done suggests that this is not an absolute requirement of the form - so I chose not to do so. Also, I altered one word in each repeat of the second refrain.

I can't WAIT until late tonight when I can link this to PT and see what all the other PTers have to offer.

On Writing Poetry Outside at 5:00 AM

In the quiet of the pre-dawn hour
alchemy awaits me as I wield my pen
Reborn, sustained by Nature's gathering power.

The rushing creek, the birds, the brightening flower
all free my soul of weight. Begin again
in the quiet of the pre-dawn hour

to voice my dreams, my hopes. This verdant bower
cradles me. I am no longer fallen --
Reborn, sustained by Nature's stately power.

I am deluged with thoughts both sweet and sour.
I wait, and watch, and deeply listen
in the quiet of the pre-dawn hour.

The drought of words becomes a building shower.
The gift will come, the transmutation happen
Reborn, sustained by Nature's fearsome power.

The poet in my heart will sing, if I allow her
the time and space to gently reawaken
in the quiet of the pre-dawn hour --
reborn, sustained by Nature's graceful power.

On Monday

This week's prompt at Poetry Thursday was guerilla poetry and I had every intention of participating. And then the massacre at Virginia Tech occurred. The higher ed world has been turned upside down and I find myself seeking comfort in the familiar and repetitive until I can listen to the news without having to remind myself to breathe. And so my only offering this week is this, raw and unedited, simply how I am feeling at this moment.



On Monday

on monday the storm passed us by
or so i thought
brave daffodils pulsing yellow beating back the snows
the bloodroots lifting their faces to the grey and leaden
sky seeking the warmth, the promise, the kiss of light
april's cruel mercy notwithstanding. flowers are sentient
in their own way, calyx and corolla turning toward the sun
even when there is little sun to be found. for what else
is there, for them and for us, to do? on monday i
picked up my son and danced him around the kitchen, made
him dinner, read him a story. every word, every act, every
breath a litany: make it not so, Lord, make it not so. for
all the mothers, Lord, make it not so.

Why I love poetry

The current prompt over at Poetry Thursday was to write 153 words or less about why you love poetry, and I have been mulling this over all week. I can tell you that I have loved poetry for a long time; since college at least. I won't say JUST how long that is... everyone is entitled to a few secrets :-) but poetry and I have been more or less constant companions for years. I can talk about my favorite poets and explore themes and patterns that bring cohesion to a list which may seem disjointed upon first reading. But getting to the why is a greater challenge.

The poets I have loved: Mary Oliver, of course. Robinson Jeffers. H.D., especially Trilogy. Janet Beeler, now Janet Beeler Shaw of American Girls fame, who published one exquisite volume called Dowry in the late 70's. William Blake. Madeleine L'Engle. Wonderful jillypoet, whose blog led me to Poetry Thursday. And so many of the PTers I have discovered.

An odd list, I know. Different styles. Different periods. The more I think about it, though, I see some commonalities: An abiding sense of the spiritual. A willingness to engage the tough questions - why are we here? what does it mean to be human? where do we fit in the order of the universe? An appreciation of the natural world. A certain lyricism in choice of language.

So, in 153 words or less: Poetry, for me, is a mirror in which to view the everyday sacred. Those astonishing and incomprehensibly beautiful moments when our temporal and spiritual worlds intersect create such a brilliance - I am afraid to look for fear I will be blinded. Through poetry they become approachable. Living life, experiencing life fully, is intense. Poetry gives me a way to sit in the room with that intensity, opening myself to it - the piercing joys, the crumbling sorrows - knowing that others have traveled this path, knowing that the moments I treasure can be revisited. I create scrapbooks of images to share with family and friends, but poetry weaves a scrapbook of words, a written trail of the history of my heart.

In closing, I share with you a poem-in-progress. Lately I have been caught in that bittersweet conundrum that every parent knows too well - each step towards independence is also a step away. I can barely see the nursling-who-was in the bright and accomplished little person who lives in my house, and I am at once full of pride and rather melancholy. This poem is an attempt to capture that feeling. I would love some feedback on it. And, if you are a PTer, I can't wait to hear why you love poetry too.


Untitled, so far

Nothing prepares you for the fatigue
of new parenthood.

"Don't mind if I do," Exhaustion says
and moves right in.
Eats the best kippers
Uses the last clean towels
Makes itself at home in
the very marrow of your bones.

Oh, my little one:
those early days,
stupid with love and
cleaved by joy,
terrifying in its ferocity.
Defenseless, I was.
I would have given six right arms
for one night's sleep.

Those early days:
Could I have guessed
that I would mourn their passing?
Could I have known that I would crave
the dark and holy music of your breath?

Water Lily

This week's prompt at Poetry Thursday was really more of a game. The idea was to post one line from a work of your own, and then use a line (or lines) from someone else to create a new poem. I found this to be one of the most fun experiences I have had in writing. There were so many great lines from which to choose, and yet two spoke to me immediately and I knew they were destined to be joined. The two lines I used were:

gravity wraps me in greedy arms from DebR's poem Born to Fly and

resting in a clean white bowl from Megan's lovely haiku

I do have a question for you Poetry Thursday-ers... what would you do about citations for a poem such as this which clearly alludes to John Keats but only quotes three words?

Any other comments are welcome as well. I am so excited to read everyone's offerings this week.


Water Lily

I seek a pool of silence
in which to be
still and calm. But
gravity wraps me in greedy arms
of sound. The cacophony of daily
life accosts me:
the hungry cat's squall,
the sick child's cough,
the brake shoe's shriek.
The din scalds my throat,
more potent than Cuervo and
dryer than dust.

In my dream, I see
a room devoid of color. Pristine
walls glow with perfect luminescence.
In my dream, I am
a water lily.
Resting in a clean white bowl,
I slip beneath the surface.
Not a ripple do I make.
For one immaculate moment,
I cease
to
be.

Uncle Frank: In Memoriam (with apologies to Robinson Jeffers and William Shakespeare)

I admired the beauty while I was human, now I am part of the beauty...
-Robinson Jeffers, Inscription for a Gravestone, 1938

You are part of the beauty now.
Dendrites and mitochondria transmogrified
into something rich and strange:
Ore in the smelter
A new leaf on a bay tree in Anguilla
The dew that feeds an aphid in the grass.

What was it like, this final and most important stepping-off
into the great and wild unknown?
Did you catch your breath with joy
as one does at the crest of a roller-coaster,
laughing before the plunge,
or did you close your eyes gratefully,
enjoying the softness of your bed in
those last sweet moments before sleep?

No matter now. You
have gone where we all must go.
Everything tends towards ruin,
the poet tells us.
Entropy is the natural order of the universe,
and we should love the symmetry of this chaos.
Here is my subversive, dark secret:
I love the pattern in a Fibonacci spiral,
love the rhythmic pulse of the sunset,
love the beauty in the memory of your life,
love you.

Big Sky Country

This week's Poetry Thursday prompt is Blue...


Packing for Montana, I try to be ruthless,
stripping down. Just the essentials:
warm sweater
new toothbrush
three pairs of socks.
When my rucksack is full, I coil my rope on top.

I made this rope.
Selected the fibers, twisted and twisted
until they kinked and smoothed
into a cohesive whole.
Hemp for the base, simple and strong,
the feather a blue jay left on the porch
clippings from your latest haircut
threads from the hem of my old jeans
and wool sheared from the sheep down the road.
Long enough to tie to a fencepost and
wrap three times around my waist.
I'll anchor myself with the pieces of our life.

Big sky country:
I know what will happen.
Ensnared by the wild and dangerous song in my heart,
forgotten by gravity,
I'll cease to hug the earth
and fall into the great oasis of the endless azure sky.