I ... entered the poem of life, whose purpose is ... simply to witness the beauties of the world,
to discover the many forms that love can take. (Barabara Blackman in 'Glass After Glass')

These poems are works in progress and may be updated without notice. Nevertheless copyright applies to all writings here and all photos (which are either my own or used with permission). Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your blog posts as much as possible.

30 June 2015

On Not Writing a Monday Poem

I wanted to write
a small, sweet Monday poem for Gillena
because she invited me to
and I like Gillena

but over the weekend
I wrote a big, exhausting
confessional poem
about hurt and healing —

about all the pieces of my life
carried in my hands,
about my quest
for balance and remaking.

After that I forgot
all about Gillena and Monday
and everything.
I was letting so much go.

This is Tuesday.
My friend Patsy
shouted me a massage
with lovely Sarah.

It was much needed.
‘You are doing a lot of detoxing,’
Sarah said. And I thought:
'I know. It’s because of Solstice.

'It’s because of what I consigned
to the Solstice fire.'
The days are still cold
but Winter is slowly leaving.


Linked to Monday WRites and to The Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Also posted in my facebook Notes.

28 June 2015

Taking My Life in My Hands

In one hand, I hold hurt:
the loss of my dearest husband
into his death; the pain
of a grown son become an enemy;
various cats who used to be;
particular dogs who were mighty.

I hold my mother
who named me after a fragrant herb,
telling herself she was naming me
for a pretty actress — symbolic
of love and misunderstanding
as we never quite connected ... except deep.

I hold the stepmother
who fed me poison (no, not literally,
though she'd have liked to
and to force it personally down my throat);
the father who betrayed
me and my little brother into her keeping.

This is the hand that handles
the housework, the food,
the weeding and pruning,
the careful allocation of the money;
the hand that signed divorce papers — twice 
and afterwards dried my eyes.

In the other hand, the healing hand, I hold
memories of happiness
with my late husband, and with the others;
the conjured-up touch of their skin.
I hold my parents in this one too,
when they were young, when they were glad.

I hold, in this hand, my stepfather's hand
who was a friend, and all the hands
of all my friends. And I hold the hands
of my children, back before one let go.
I feel the fur of the remembered 
cats and dogs, and the cat I still have.

Here in the healing hand is a map
of the green Caldera I live in (20 years now)
its mountains, rivers and ocean.
I hold, too, the island
where I grew up its mountains and rivers
and wild ocean. I even hold an old city.

My hands themselves are old.
The backs are freckled with liver spots
and the veins have turned into strings.
But the palms are rosy and firm,
still smooth-skinned, still plump. These hands
have a clean smell and a good grip.

I stand poised, one foot on a rock
and one dipping into the water.
I am almost dancing. The wind
flirts with my skirt. The sky is a gentle blue
like the water; the clouds are fluffy soft.
There are golden flowers, green grass.

From the cups of my hands pour streams
of living water. The streams combine.
The hurts I hold are soothed and healed,
just as the sweet things I hold are defined
by certain sharp edges. I find a precarious
balance, and spread my red wings wide.

























Inspired by an exercise in Wingbeats

Also posted in my facebook Notes. If you think you have already commented, but don't see your comment, it was probably made there!





‘Six Word Saturday’ emanates from Call Me Cate’s blog, Show My Face. To read her and other people’s ‘Six Word Saturday’ posts, click the icon.

Also shared at Poets United's Poetry Pantry #258

Faithful Friends

Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find. 
— William Shakespeare

I am the person of the cat.
He comes in and out, his tail raised,
and greets me with plaintive yells.

I remember that he was a quiet cat
not long ago. His sister, then,
did the talking. He, lordly, refrained.

Now she is dead, and he has become 
his own mouthpiece. Necessity!
He also jumps up and scratches my chair.

We both know I am his. Sometimes
I am obedient. When, so often, I’m not, 
he yells louder, telling me off.

I snarl back. I still have the power
of food. But he has the power of himself.
When I am good, he will give me snuggles.





















Written in response to 'Play It Again' #18 at imaginary garden with real toads,
for both the Writing from the Inside Out and  (Very) Old School challenges.

26 June 2015

Speaking with the Mother

'Thou,' I say
to Mother
(She who is all this)
to give respect.

Not that we are 
used to hear
the old tongue,
but I know it.

My hand is ready
to pull from fire
what black ashes
I can

to spit at that worm
the man — but she says,
'He is My son. Learn now
to flow, be water.'


Written in response to a Words Count prompt at 'imaginary garden with real toads' in which we are asked for a poem of 60 or fewer words, using some from a list of 23 'ultraconserved' words dating from the Ice Age, which the Eurasiatic languages have in common (seeming to indicate that there was an original mother tongue). The words are: 

thou
I
not
that
we
to give
who
this
what
man / male
ye
old
mother
to hear
hand
fire
to pull
black
to flow
bark
ashes
to spit
worm

25 June 2015

At the Turning Point

Winter Solstice 2015
















At the turning point
I greeted old friends
not seen for many months,
and said goodbye to a new friend
going for months away.

At the turning point
I danced and sang
with others in a colourful circle,
then moved to a chair at the edge
when they gathered speed.


 
















At the turning point
I delivered a talk, hiding nerves.
I had to speak loud, and project
over an exuberant infant’s joyous whoops.
‘Such command!’ they praised. ‘Such a voice!’

I drove back home with new ease
around the scary bends
of the darkening road —
handling the car with confidence
at each turning point.

My angel sat beside me
only a little while.
‘You can do this now,’ he said.
I agreed, and acknowledged
the turning-point.





















In the Solstice fire I burned
old fears, old guilts, old regrets —
leaving a space for new light
to begin and grow in me, here
at the turning point.


Written for Midweek Motif, Entering Summer or Winter, in which our challenge was: Write a poem to share your insights on the events and changes you're  experiencing this time of  year.

Photos © Dede Callichy 2015

(I have deliberately blurred faces in the dance photo, except mine. — RNW)

21 June 2015

The Quality of Your Smile

Someone said  in fact many said
we should be friends, so much
in common. So we met, and became
mildly friendly. It seemed enough.

'Such harmony,' the seer told me.
'This one will be in many ways
your happiest love, even though
more friendship than passion.'

I could believe that last. There was
no spark. But our conversations
were easy and pleasant. It might have
gone on so: delightful yet inconsequential.

Until I noticed your smile, as you spoke
with someone else. I saw your joy,
your unconscious charm. And more.
Startled, I recognised my own smile.


Linked to the Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

19 June 2015

Father Christmas

The little ones didn't know it was you.
You were on your way to be, as usual,
Santa to the crippled kids.
You'd been a crippled kid yourself,
and I guess those kids must have liked
a Santa with a limp. As for us,
we never even noticed. You don't notice
what you've grown up with, never any different.

You decided to come by our house
dressed up, a treat for the little ones.
I was big enough to know, and I knew
I must not tell. But I was nearly bursting,
jumping up and down, clinging to your arm.
'Oh Daddy!' I whispered through my grin.
'Daddy Christmas!' Mr Lightfoot next door said
very quickly, then whirled you away in his jeep.

The Lightfoots' new puppy ran after it, barking,
but my little brother and his best friend,
Roger Lightfoot, grabbed him. My mother
gave the puppy a biscuit. His name was Bingo.
He was black and tan. Then she gave us all
a biscuit — shortbreads out of the big red tin
she kept in the kitchen. She had on her new
teal coloured jumper over her pleated skirt.

I thought my Mum was prettier
than a film star. You thought so too.
Sometimes she sat on your lap
and you kissed her and sang:
'I'm half crazy, all for the love of you,'
and both of you laughed. But that day
was the last time I ever remember
all of us being so happy.

I suppose we had a good Christmas
two days later, but I don't remember.
I remember that day, and my little brother's face
shining. Father Christmas came to his house
and talked to him! I was mostly unable
to speak, my breath coming huge and fast.
I remember how red your costume was.
I remember you driving away.


Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif: Fathers. Based on an exercise in Wingbeats: Rube Goldberg Poems, by Oliver de la Paz.

17 June 2015

Occasionally I Hear

Occasionally,
I hear the cat door clunk
and the pad of a paw come through,
but when I look up to greet him
he’s already here beside me,
my old boy. So I know

our girl who left us
last September
now nine months ago
still comes back to visit,
invisible — 
but I know what she looks like.











I'm linking this to the current Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. 

15 June 2015

A Monday Kind of Mind

A new beginning,
a starting over,
a striding forth —

but leaving reluctantly
Sunday’s lazy mood,
already a memory.

Order and organisation,
responsibility and work!
Squaring her shoulders,

she approaches Monday.
She faces Monday,
adjusting her mind.

Adjusting her mind,
she faces Monday.
She approaches Monday,

squaring her shoulders
for responsible work,
order and organisation.

Already a memory,
Sunday’s lazy mood
is leaving reluctantly.

She strides forth
and starts over —
a new beginning.


Written for Monday WRites #16

14 June 2015

Winter Sunday

the day of rest
I stay in dressing-gown
all day, reading

phone unplugged
doors locked, screen door snibbed
home is my castle

night settling down
favourite shows on telly
my old cat snuggling














For Sunday lime at Gillena's 'Lunch Break' blog

Twelve American Sentences

First dark; lichen breathe after water — no wind; dawn on seed tendril.

Garden bough, bird can listen summer, the sun ancient and animal.

Warm vine when you cycle, happy gentle wild spirit: behold my bright.

River like light; lonely life with only winter cloud shade secret blue.

Quiet watch, grow shine above soft wild — feel fresh fall, to thrive how squirrel.

Soon spring, beneath deep almost air that will let cold blossom climb rock, root.

Sweet rose always why insect walk through leaves, tree breeze, thick mountain mosses.

Deep dawn blankets gentle flower garden; how shine stone or river rock.

You wander that summer sanctuary, grow happy — wet mountain moon.

Cover for love make prairie night sweet secret they see above wild cloud.

Bee murmur give bloom a soft rustle, as thick sun colour rose vivid.

Almost dusk here, bird watch — this daffodil and grass rest: green harmony.


The Sunday Mini-Challenge at 'imaginary garden with real toads' asks us to be inspired by the poetry of Marilyn Chin. Among others of her extraordinary poems, we were directed to her Twenty Five Haiku. I noticed they were in fact American Sentences, a form of haiku devised by Allen Ginsberg for Westerners — but with a vivid intensity I had not seen before in any American Sentence. 

Mine are not haiku (or even American Sentences) as I'm used to writing them — i.e. in-the-moment observations of the external world — and they are not meant as imitations of Chin's remarkable work. I am sill exploring the Magnetic Poetry site, so these are composed by selecting random words and using scenes from my imagination. This time I used the Nature kit.

12 June 2015

Mutual Love Rhapsody

dream beside you
my soft song
listen
come the hope
charm with another evening
word over time
remember
belong when home here
heart has gentle regard
believe star wish
we want us
tell strong river
as faith bloom full

as faith bloom full
tell strong river
we want us
believe star wish
heart has gentle regard
belong when home here
remember
word over time
charm with another evening
come the hope
listen
my soft song
dream beside you



At dVerse Meeting the Bar, we are invited to write a palindrome or mirror poem. Perhaps I'm not very inventive just now! After the first abortive attempt, my mind went blank — until I resorted once again to the Magnetic Poetry site. Perhaps not a huge challenge, but all I can manage at present. I used the Love kit this time. The title came from the kit, too.


11 June 2015

In My Cavern

Imagining the thoughts of one seeking shelter from a violent hailstorm, alone in a place that may also be dangerous — though apparently not.














Here I growl for fire
or must embrace ice —

will long work up to
the soft smile as could kiss it.

Green flowers. Magic steel. Put red. 
Make warm steam cloud dance.

A vast wet smoke poisons me.
Remember breath?

Open a secret window
to lie ferocious, devouring poetry.

Dark hole. I explore night,
listen to lingering angel / ghost.

Sacred self no thing.
One, two. Throb slow.

At morning I drink dirt.
Almost cool, brother!

No glass from home;
coffee is fever.

I may blush, fool, and eye day.
It is naked joy. Celebrate!

Live, fly!
Delicious moist grass.

I go with young voice,
life salt and time wild.

A broken, brilliant rhythm.
Hard peace.


In 'The Cavern of My Thoughts' at 'imaginary garden with real toads, we are invited to imagine such a scenario and write the thoughts the person might experience. Once again I succumbed to the lure of the Magnetic Poetry site, this time using the Poet kit.

Image: free download from Extreme Adventure in the Cave Wallpaper

10 June 2015

Twenty-Four Hours

yesterday is but today's memory and tomorrow is today's dream — Kahlil Gibran

sky and language
are blue blowing
summer storms

sun rose
over smooth, still diamond

some want to whisper
after a shadow

but beneath my day of worship
my thousand sweet gardens

I lust madly
shine a mean beat for our blood

& by goddess will never stop
one with us

together we watch
were you … ?
no me,  you say

you see their cool drunk dreams
luscious like light
languid purple

when not swim shot
ugly with raw water
let music mist sing why

urge a trudge
heave the breast

through her pink picture
time
love is a head wind

lie up lake
above black crush

play on moon
sleep honey

tongue & feet go hot
who wax yet woman
though how these must live

bitter bed
and as all ache
in here is chant

by one needy life
to show

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif: TimeProbably I'm cheating — this is another created by using the Magnetic Poetry site (again using the Original kit). However I did try for the sense of a progression through time. And also for a weird kind of coherence.

8 June 2015

she cry fast like delirious

life is not still
we sing rust sky
as a sunup chant
goddess hair gorgeous but
stop her mad moan
what shadow and blood
the symphony is bitter sad
on honey skin in summer





















Created at Magnetic Poetry, using the Original Kit (each word selected individually from those presented, and arranged by whim). I've been reading Diana: The Life of a Troubled Princessby Sally Bedell Smith; I expect this influenced my subconscious. 

 Linked with Monday WRites15, and also to The Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

7 June 2015

The Priestess



















From beyond the veil,
ruled by the Moon,
she speaks for the Dark Goddess.

As Oracle, she must
give seekers the truth —
but only when they ask.

What she tells them
perhaps they won't like,
won't believe, won't understand.

Not her concern!
Her one task is to speak truth,
as it is given to her.


A 55-word poem for 'flash 55' at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. I've been discussing the 'Priestess' Tarot card lately, so I didn't have to search for a subject.

4 June 2015

This Poem is Forest, Ocean, Air

This poem is a forest of green leaves.
This poem is an ocean without plastic.
This poem is air with no chemical vapours.

This poem wants to let you know
that the shade of green of the leaves tells you 
the state of the tree: old or young, ill or well,
and how close to dying. Then you can see
the condition of the whole forest.
This poem is a thick forest of bright green leaves.

This poem wants to make you remember
a time when the oceans were sparkling clean,
home only to fish and coral, rock and reed
and the great sea mammals that roam the earth —
a time when rubbish would sink and disintegrate.
This poem is a clean ocean without any plastic.

This poem means to show you
a sky without a chemtrail, air with no smog.
This poem indicates, with a vast gesture,
air of a clarity you never saw in your whole lifetime.
This is what air was created to be.
This poem is clear air with no trace of chemical vapours.

This poem is a thick, impossible forest no-one chops or burns.
This poem is a clean, impossible ocean free of any floating islands of plastic.
This poem is clear, impossible air from which we have eradicated
all traces of chemical vapours. ... This poem is impossible.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif, Sustainability. The form is Boomerang Metaphors, invented by Hannah Gosselin — with my own extra twist at the end.