Rubaiyat: Ways of Going

My days are slowly drifting into rest —
a kind of ease and yet a kind of test.
Though slowing age has made me leisurely,
I miss being quick and busy; I miss my zest.

And still I say I’m lucky. Not for me
(not yet at any rate) the agony
of cruel illness, not for me the blight
of dimming mind in dread senility.

I think again of her mind, young and bright.
She’s ready now, she says, to enter night.
Her mind is housed in an invaded brain,
the tumour slowly crowding out her light.

She’s tired of fighting, certain it’s in vain.
Shut away from sunlight, trees and rain,
she turns eighteen but must not celebrate.
Her mind and body learn increasing pain.

I don’t believe she has one certain fate —
but she believes, raging and desolate.
‘Live fast, die young ...’ Some fools might count her blest;
but she’s been neither fool nor profligate.

I’m old: I’ve lived a life, fulfilled a quest.
I watch my sun start dipping to the west
with no great eagerness; but I admit,
aching for my young friend, I come off best.


Submitted to ‘imaginary garden with real toads’, Rubaiyat prompt and also to dVerse Open Link Night #20

Several years later, in February 2019, linked also to dVerse's Poetry Forms—The Rubaiyat.

I remember that having a strict form to use made it easier to write on such a troubling topic, enabling me to contain the emotion and be reflective (which is also the mood of Fitzgerald's translation of Omar, I think, albeit the subject matter is very different.)

Last Light

In Memoriam Joyce Lee 1913-2007

I read your last book backwards

dearest Joyce, beginning

with your over-90, inevitable

reflections on approaching death

and wandering back 

through final memories,

a new perspective on the past

more peaceful, even more grateful

then arriving

at your last understanding

of childhood, existence itself

and your own country.

*****************

For many friends, as for me,

surely the subtle fragrance

of deep conversations with you

permeates these pages.

I muse on our last phone call.

You were afraid, you said.

You, with all your faith!

I had no comfort, but the book

tells me you heard:

‘Talk to that angel who visits you;

ask for help.’  You write of his help

at the end, brightening your sky.


The late Australian poet Joyce Lee is not to be confused with the English performance poet of the same name. Her last book, Bountiful Years, was published in 2007 by Rebus Press and launched posthumously. 


This piece is included in Poets United's Poetry Pantry #77.

Prose to Poetry

At dVerse Critique and Craft this week, we were asked to turn an already poetic piece of prose into a poem, first arranging it as lines of verse and then crafting it further. 

I happen to be re-reading Rudyard Kipling’s Puck of Pook’s Hill at the moment. Kipling’s prose is beautiful (after all he was a poet too). I took excerpts from the chapter I’ve just finished, leaving out many connecting words and passages but otherwise not changing the language. I did arrange them into verses of equal length, even at this stage — can’t help myself — and already tried to hint at a new story.

Then I rearranged the verses further and left out even more words so as to (hopefully!) bring out the music. I did make some changes at this stage, e.g. to omit details irrelevant to the poem I'm creating, such as the names of the hill and the man, but they are very tiny changes.

The title I’ve given the poem in both cases is not the chapter heading (that is ‘A Centurion of the Thirtieth‘) but a phrase from the text.

They are still Kipling’s words, not mine, so I would have to call each version a found poem.

1

Una went alone to the Far Wood.

She looked down most cautiously, 

and saw a young man 

covered with hoopy bronze armour 

all glowing among the late broom. 

But what Una admired beyond all 

was his great bronze helmet 

with a red horse-tail that flicked in the wind. 

She could hear the long hairs rasp 

on his shimmery shoulder-plates.

He leaned forward, but his eye 

was caught by the setting sun.

It had come down to the top of Cherry Clack Hill, 

and the light poured in between the tree trunks 

so that you could see 

red and gold and black 

deep into the heart of Far Wood; 

and Parnesius in his armour shone  

as though he had been afire.

‘Wait!’ he said, lifting a hand, 

and the sunlight jinked on his glass bracelet, 

‘Wait! I pray to Mithras!’

He rose and stretched his arms westward, 

with deep, splendid-sounding words.

Through the goldy-brown light 

of the beech leaves they walked.  

They found themselves 

at the little locked gates of the wood.

2

Una went alone to the Far Wood

She saw a young man

all glowing among the late broom:

great bronze helmet with a red horse-tail
that flicked in the wind. 

She could hear the long hairs rasp 

on his shimmery shoulder-plates.

He leaned forward, but his eye 

was caught by the setting sun.

The light poured between tree trunks. 

You could see red and gold and black 

deep into the heart of Far Wood. 

He in his armour shone as though afire.

‘Wait!’ he said, lifting a hand. 

The sunlight jinked on his glass bracelet. 

‘Wait! I pray to Mithras!’ He rose 

and stretched his arms westward. 

Deep, splendid-sounding words

through the goldy-brown light 

of the beech leaves

at the locked gates of the wood.

Missing

1
we walked hand in hand

now we reach out but can’t touch

do you lag behind

or are you leading the way

in another direction?

2
you come seeking me

‘I think I lost you,’ you say,

‘we lost connection’

I lean into your embrace

‘yes, I just wrote that poem’

Composed for the dVerse Man’yoshu prompt 
(though I was too late to include it in the list).


If you're looking for a post on colour, my apologies for the wrong link. Try this.

Seasonal Colours

1

across the world

the waning days of Fall

are inspiring poets

brown leaves,

gold, orange and red

variations of light

2

in my garden

late Spring presents

mystery

I remember

orange blooms cascading

down the fence

now on those vines

white flowers with crimson centres

flare and drop 

the others

were winter flowers

startling

these new

delicate blossoms

embody Spring

it must be

that different vines

entangle

Submitted for Poets United's Thursday Think Tank #73.

I'm indebted to the prompt for some of the (stolen) phrases in 1. 
The autumn leaf picture by Ella Wilson comes from there too.

That Sunday: October tanka 2011

Spring morning

I walk down the steps

into sunshine

new cobweb tendrils

cling to my jade plant

4/10/11

two flying insects
thin green and round black
hit my window
then bounce away at once
back to the Spring garden

************

Full moon and one star

shining over my back yard.

I blow a quick kiss

and give thanks to the Goddess

that my sick friend becomes well.

11/10/11

a busy day

until he lies down to read

and drops asleep

curling into the pillow

the book moving with his breath

18/10/11

tall bamboo

behind my neighbour’s fence

is not much like

the round stems my Dad grew

when I was a child

I walk down

into the valley

by myself

and come back home

with a new tanka

I’m not brisk

I don’t wear special clothes

when I walk

I amble slowly 

the breeze in my hair

25/10/11

that Sunday

listening to Chopin

both of us

feeling as if we’d never

heard his music before 

**************************

the gargoyle

my son David brought me

from Paris

is free of its neck chain

but one wing is broken

26/10/11

in this land

we sit down on the ground

for a yarn

one way the invaded

have taken us over

31/10/11

near miss

on roundabout

lesson

don’t make poems

while driving

#gogyohka

31/10/11

Muffled thunder: October haiku 2011

playing chasey

the incoming tide

laughing

*********

quiet rain

tonight the world mourns

dead genius

‘Retweet if you’re 

touching an Apple product.’

I am, of course.

6/10/11

cold morning

woken too early

restless cats

my man wakes

demands the time

back to sleep

get up feed the cats

I’m awake

the cats are resting

#haiku #senryu #lune

7/10/11

wet Spring

the cacti grow 

invisibly

13/10/11

playing online

nourished by haiku

I forget breakfast

15/10/11

the empty bin

is propped on its side

by the yellow lid

across the road

the garbage bin looks jaunty

propped on its yellow lid

21/10/11

the clock

ticks loudly

late

28/10/11

imagine

light through the trees

grey magic

*************

I prepare muesli

offering

to Hestia first

29/10/11

muffled thunder

the women meet

share secrets

30/10/11

Beltane Night 2011

All week he’s been full 

of passion and play.

Tonight his back hurts.

I go out to see the moon

but it’s still a wet Spring —

she’s cloud-hidden again.

But I can write poems

in the fertile season,

warm offerings to Life.



Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #73.

31st October

The little girls from across the road

came trick-or-treating tonight

in their witch and fairy costumes.

We’d forgotten Halloween, crude

corruption of Samhain — 

which anyway is a different season 

here, different time of year.

But we had some jellybeans,

emergency rations in case

his blood sugar drops. I poured a handful 

into their empty icecream bucket.

I wonder what they’d have said

if they’d known the smiling old couple,

their neigbours, were actual witches.

Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #73.

Sharing 11 years later with Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #50, where Rommy invites us, in honour of Halloween, to share something 'sweet'.  This old Halloween memory is a sweet one, and also the poem mentions the traditional giving of sweets.

This poem also appears in Sherry's feature for Poets United: Poems for a Witchy Halloween, along with poems by herself and Magaly Guerrero.