The Heart Breaking

The heart breaking silently awake

wishes to drown itself instead in loud tears

because it is afraid of the waking up

to what is real, and afraid of the silence

in which it must confront the void,

which may be endless – but there is no escape

from the breaking that opens the heart

out into a different world, unsuspected

when the heart was whole and firm, and closed.

How can I know this? Because, it is my heart.

A second poem linked to Because It Is My Heart – Micro Poetry at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

'Because It Is My Heart ...'

I place it in a small, enclosed garden

with a view of sky

and expansive trees.

Twined vines

dangle orange trumpets 

down the surrounding fences.

(Winter flowers. In Spring

will come pale, floppy stars.)

My black cat with white whiskers 

is here too – because.

10 lines for Because It Is My Heart – Micro Poetry at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Title from Stephen Crane: 'The Black Riders and Other Lines' (though his use of it is very different from this!).

Communing with Ghosts

Morning coming thin

in a small town with hills and a river.

I got home just as the light was changing,

the cool and sweet

rain running down.

Our house had stained glass windows.

The water blurred the glass:

waterfalls of cloud.

You smiling,

drinking the quiet cold.

I wonder at this great blessing.

But that was only the beginning.

Late afternoon sun,

long summer nights.

Hibiscus buds fall open,

red gauntlet to bloody the first ...

trails of fern move to evade.

I am not quite ready to engage fully with my sorrow.

The old church never alters.

The wind clings to the wall,

down through the strange dark –

the confluence of waters where

further mysteries open,

chalked on dark stone.

You kept falling over

in absolute amusement.

The gates were slow to close.

You don't remember that now.

You cough in your sleep.

The old dog knows.

Today I'm grace but for litter.

I am a void that everything flows through. 

(Owl with the black face,

what is the name of this power?)

He is alone in another country

using his derelict hat to salute me.

It was all a long time ago.

Again we have stayed silent,

not knowing we lied.

The moon is coming to the full.

Moonlight and your shining face.

And afterwards we wept as we embraced.

And remember last year in Lamesa –

the evening light on the grass,

the house where she planted roses?

She came on the night blinded,

radiant with tears.

Her skirt fluttered...

I had to do what I did.

This is an 'egomaniacal cento' (found in The Crafty Poet: a Portable Workshop by Diane Lockward). A cento is a poem made up entirely of lines borrowed from other poets. The egomaniacal cento uses lines taken from one's own discarded drafts, journal entries, etc. In this case, they are all from discarded drafts, and chosen to create a certain mood. The fun is in the arranging, and sometimes re-punctuating, so as to suggest actual meaning.

Linked to dVerse OpenLinkNight #176

Self-indulgence

I went away today

to visit poetry

in a place where 

I used to play,

and might again

some day. I dawdled

through the streets

enjoying the familiar,

noting the new and strange.

At first I felt like a voyeur, 

but then the delight 

of reconnection 

grabbed me and the joy 

of hearing that language, 

breathing that air…. I 

went away today 

into poetry 

and lingered there

for several hours. What 

luxury! It was something 

I did just for me.

My Role in the Circus of Life

Most circus performers

are versatile now. You have to be.

Acrobat and clown, weight-lifter

and juggler, aerialist ...

well, you get the idea. Me,

I'm a little different: between

specialties, not this one plus that, 

but something of all. Or none. 

What I do is – 

                      I jump sideways. 

And the way I do it is to land 

somewhere unexpected, leaving

my audience scratching

its collective head: 'How did ...

why ...?' And I love it!

Not that I do it to shock.

It's just the way I'm made, 
how my freaky synapses work.

Written for Play it Again at 'imaginary garden with real toads', in  response to the prompt: 'Is your life a circus?  If so, which circus performer are you?  Tell me about your act . . . in 90 words or less.' (Mine's the full 90, excluding title.) 

See also Jumping Sideways (memoir material).

The Teacher

I believed you were holy and strong.

I wanted a good teacher, wise enough

to instruct me faultlessly, so I could make

my life perfection. I knew you knew it all. 

The re-assessment was gradual. You said

things I couldn't agree to. My subservience 

to your understanding was shaken. Then,

on some facts that I knew, you were just wrong.

Yet you spoke with conviction. Oh well, 

it wasn't a lasting problem. I moved away.

Our correspondence was brief and infrequent.

I remembered you as a great teacher.

Twenty years later, while travelling, I visit

the bitter old woman you have become.

During most of our lunch, you castigate

one of my closest friends for an ancient mistake –

ignoring her many achievements since.

Our conversation has nowhere much to go

after I contradict you – though, in the old habit

of reverence, I say little. Soon it's time to leave.

I know I won't be back. I know I have grown

into my own opinions, my own ways of living 

my (imperfect) life. I kiss you goodbye, saddened. 
I see you are still an excellent teacher.

At dVerse, for Part 5 of the 5th anniversary week, we are asked to:  Write on a belief that you once had that has now changed or you let go of it.  Did it change any relationships that you had?  

Title: I explore & examine my totems so as to create #poetry – which I'll post on twitter, that is I'll tweet – each one called a #poetweet

First I #poetweet Owl, 

my Left-hand Guardian

connecting me to the dark,

penetrating mystery

with clear incisive sight

an advantage for #poetry

My Right-hand Guardian is Serpent

for Cunning (Owl's Wisdom)

giving day/action streetsmarts and 

the Healing I want in my #poetweet #poetry

Last, Great Mother Spider 

childhood terror / lifelong totem.

Protector. And Weaver 
good for a maker of #poetry,

blessing my every #poetweet

Note: Each aforegoing #poetweet was written in response to prompts from 'imaginary garden with real toads' & dVerse, playgrounds for #poetry

[And a further note just for readers of this blog – the hashtags have to be within the 140 characters, so for this exercise I needed to include them in each tweet. Because, yes, I have tweeted all of the above, including Title and Note. But not this bit.]

Coming a Long, Long Way

“I am cold, even though the heat of early summer is adequate. I am cold because I cannot find my heart.” ~Sebastian Barry from his novel A Long, Long Way

I grew up cold. Frosts every morning

in the long winters – thick and deep, lasting

half the day before they thawed. The wind

biting to the bone, the relentless rain chilling.

I grew up cold. The ice of a mother love

which included criticisms and no cuddles

that I can remember, only the tense few

cheek kisses immediately withdrawn from.

Years later, well into adult life, I always

wore cardigans right into summer, unable

to feel warmth all the way through, inside,

even when I surrounded myself with huggers.

But life is long. I live now in a warm climate

all year round, and I generated enough

warmth from my own heart at last, for others,

that it reflected back to me and filled me.

I no longer wear cardigans in high summer.

That was long ago. I understand now 

that my poor mother loved me, but couldn’t

express it freely from her paralysing lifelong cold.

For dVerse, day 3 of the 5-day fifth anniversary celebrations

Sevenling (My Favourite Music)

Nothing made Freya happier
than to snuggle between Andrew and me,
purring all night in deep rhythm.

Later, when Andrew and Freya were gone,
Levi would curl up next to me and purr.
Now he too has left me; they are all gone.

My new cat is wary, and shares the bed silently.


Yes I know, comparisons are odious, and the new cat is gradually getting more trusting and affectionate. (She did purr the other night while sitting on my lap, as I wrote two poems ago.) I love her – and I still miss the others.

A sevenling for dVerse. We were asked to write about music.

At This Point on the Journey

Good companions are leaving – 

some without farewell. Let me now revisit 

places where I paused in delight, 

before I too stop travelling. 

                                              In Nepal 

I recall we walked through fields of weed

to meet the Bonpo Abbott. He revealed
wisdom but no lasting answers.

A quadrille for dVerse, on the word 'journey'.  

Back story:

Vivienne Blake, a warm and talented English poet resident in France, whom I knew only online, died suddenly and unexpectedly on July 5th. Billy Marshall Stoneking, an American-Australian poet and film-maker, died on July 15th. As far as I can gather, that was sudden and unexpected too. I remember him from the days when we were both young performance poets, committed to taking poetry 'off the page'. In recent years, we reconnected on facebook. Though neither was a close friend, it's a shock.

Today, over lunch with one who is a close friend, talk turned to Tibet, Nepal, Buddhism, and the earlier Bon (aka Bonpo) religion. This evening I looked at dVerse to see an interview with another poet I only know online, just returned from time in Nepal, plus a prompt for a quadrille on the subject of 'journey'. And it all came together....

Breakthrough!

My new cat, who has in her past 

been abused and abandoned,

has chosen to remain silent – 

until, tonight on my lap,

for the very first time she made 

faint but continual purring.

(We were actually on the couch at the time, but I certainly wasn't going to disturb the moment by taking a photo, so this on the bed, is the most similar one I've got.)

A note to my email subscribers

I do apologise for my bad habit of posting poems when I think they're ready, and then immediately noticing things that could be improved.

I wonder if you get several versions popping up in your inboxes in quick succession? Probably. All I can say is, prefer the last one.

I am making good resolutions to wait, go away and do something else, and have a fresh look at a new, supposedly finished poem after some hours have passed. That might work. (But there's something about seeing it posted which instantly highlights all the faults!)

Love,
Rosemary

The Settling In

(The first six months)

She is running all over the house just now 

like a kitten, although she is eight –

well middle-aged for a cat – 

and has been a mother.

I don’t know what became

of her kittens. I don’t know why 

she won’t purr or miaow. Or who taught her

to cringe away if I even raise my voice.

‘You’re very expressive,’ I told her,

‘with your eyes and body, but if I’m busy 

I might not notice you want something. 

Either miaow, or mind-shout louder.’

She makes her own choices. Instead,

if I don’t immediately see her needs 

and respond, now she runs up to me,

tapping my leg with a gentle, insistent paw.

She’s a spectacular beauty. Maybe that

got her saved and homed, until at last

fate brought her to me. I think

we were meant for each other.

We have learned the right moments

for her to sit on me, and me to croon and pat.

We have learned to know when both of us, 

old girls set in our ways, need space.

Sometimes, now, I can pick her up

and hold her, and she doesn’t struggle.

(But I keep it brief.)  She likes me nearby

when she spends time outside. I oblige.

A wise woman told me she is my witch cat,

my new familiar. ‘You are equal partners,

not one overpowering the other.‘ I wait.

Perfect love and trust are almost here.

I'm linking this to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #313

As If

It’s as if 

I could go back

to some other 

real, solid moment

and stay there

anchored in my life

as it was then 

(when I start

remembering)

as if I could

choose

some ordinary

everyday 

happiness

before 

you were sick,

and not have to 
leave that spot

or you.


This poem seems a perfect fit for Poets United's latest Midweek Motif: Absence

Against the Tide

There are still prophets.

They are yelling. Nobody listens.

We haven't got time now

to use them to build religions –

anyway, look where that got us.

(What if we had simply done 

as Jesus and Co advised?) 

Now it's a race, for the Angels to save 
our world and us. It always was. 

I was a child when Grandpa 

gave me 'The Silent Spring'. 

Now I'm 76. Governments, finally, 

begin to show concern ... some.

Many prophets of recent time foretold 

the breakdown of our systems, 

financial and political. Well???

Some say this could usher in –

if we learn – a new Golden Age.  

My father taught me: if everyone waits 

until everyone else stands up, 

no-one ever will. I have to 
do it myself, even if....

Written for Sunday Mini Challenge: Shallows, Deeply (to find something deep in an increasingly shallow world) at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

Which Famous Writer Are You? (Facebook Quiz)

I wanted songs around the campfire,

and a pet raven.

I decided to walk in the woods.

I chose to become a dragon.

For this, I get Stephen King!

Loved by millions but not by me.

I can be, I am told, a master of horror.

Recalling childhood nightmares, I shudder.

If I had an attraction to horror,

I'd watch the news on TV

or see what was trending on twitter.

No need to write my own.

I suppose it's because I selected

for my favourite holiday, Halloween.

(There wasn't a box labelled Samhain, 

my real choice – not quite the same.)

I pick up my staff and call to my raven.

I'm off for a ramble among the trees.

I'll practise my songs for the campfire,

and turn into Ursula Le Guin.


Linking to the Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

My Secret Loves

What I love is to sing.

What I love is to dance.

These lifelong loves

remain my secret –

since early childhood

when joyously

I displayed them

expressed them,

let my full heart overflow

with the soaring, glorious tones,

the swaying, swirling moves.

Oh, how I set them free!

No-one else could hear or see –

not as I did, not as I felt.

‘You have no tune,

you have no beat.’

I hid my love,

I smothered my joy.

Now no-one hears 

or sees me.

Only, when I’m alone,

I turn the music loud:

I sing with all my lungs,

I dance with my whole body.

The rest of the time,

my throat and feet

are sensibly still and silent.

(Secretly, though, they’re dreaming.)

(Tone-deaf and no sense of rhythm! But poetry has taught me how to sing and dance on the page.) 

Written for Sanaa's Prompt Nights: Dancing is like dreaming with your feet, and (simultaneously) for Fireblossom Friday: Secret Love at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Return to the Winter Garden

My new cat has enticed me

to come and sit with her

right now, in our courtyard garden.

Bright orange, the trumpet creeper 

is climbing my neighbour's tree.

Not my job to tell him, and I'm sure

he can see, so I settle back to enjoy.

Once, a huge monitor lizard

climbed it too, and lay all afternoon

along a branch. Earlier today

I heard the fat dove coo,

that lives over there. Luckily

my cat, Selene, doesn't hunt – not

if it means scaling fences. She

is no longer young. Nor am I.

It's a lovely, sunny winter afternoon,

not so cold as yesterday. A plane

drones lazily over. It's nearly four years;

I hardly remember the pain of them –

those years of coming here to my garden

and your large absence meeting me. 

And in noticing how I don't remember,

I do remember – and I turn from that

into today, and peace, and my new cat.

I'm linking this poem to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #311

Waking / Waiting

Gradually I notice

sunshine has returned

(yesterday’s rain

made a day

to hunker down,

hibernate).

The slow count

of votes continues.

Not looking good.

A brisk wind

rustles itself up

from nowhere.

My cat examines

the outside world,

decides: another day

for staying in.

Travelling This Road

(After the Federal Election, fearing more welfare cuts)

Where to from here? 

And how to proceed?

I do the things 

I must and can

to make my wheels go round.

I fold the washing, notice

the dishes are getting

too high in the sink

and the bookshelf needs a dust.

Later this afternoon

I might go grab a swim

in the heated pool.

Doctor's orders, and for now

I can still get Pensioner discount.

Time to get out of

the dressing-gown,

the politics, 

even the poems;

to clean my house

and care for the cat.

Time to oil the everyday wheels

and try not to worry about

the way the vehicle of state

keeps looking smaller,

frailer, more ramshackle.

Try not think that the people

who write the instructions

might have lost their grip

when testing the handle-bars.

I'm used to being frugal.

I still manage to donate

food every month to the homeless.

I don't say, ‘They’re not my concern.’

Wouldn't you think...


Possibly the subtitle and the last verse will be best understood by Australians, in the light of specific recent government policies and utterances.

See also


Linking to The Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

Soldier Fathers

Dad didn't go
overseas to war
but to camp,
training against invasion.

(He was already wounded.
His leg, injured at 10,
needed daily dressing
all his life.)

Andrew's dad went
to the trenches –
stretcher-bearer
(wouldn't kill).

20 years later, his son 
found one surviving page 
torn from a war diary:
'Hell. Hell. Hell. Hell.'


Written for Flash 55 PLUS! at 'imaginary gardens with real toads'. We are asked for a 55-word piece (excluding title) plus we may use the theme of war. My father and father-in-law were involved, in these different ways, in World War II.

After the Election

After the election

I wake reluctantly

to a cold morning.

Out there, kookaburras

are laughing harshly.

In the Land of Flowers

Late, late have I loved Thee, O Beauty most old and yet most new.... Thou didst call and very loud and didst break through my deafness. Thou didst shine and my darkness was scattered. Thou didst touch me and I burned for thy peace.*


In the land of flowers

and buzzing bees,

of berries and ferns

and a lawn like a meadow,

between the black wattle

that spread its thick branches

over the roof of the garage,

and the willow that grew

behind the lattice summerhouse,

I played with my friends.

Most were children like me

only their clothes were different.

(Clothes of bygone eras,

I learned as I grew, 

finding pictures in costume books, 

fancy-dress or historical.)

Everyone else told me

there were no other children,

except for when cousins 

or neighbours came –

I was alone in my garden.

Some of my friends were insects –

spotted ladybirds, gold-striped bees,

tawny butterflies, and fluttery

white cabbage moths which I wasn't

allowed to like because they were pests

(but I did) and beetles with jointed legs.

There were others – bright, quick lights

that flew, and inhabited plants.

They looked like insects, mostly,

to most people, and not like

the pretty, winged fairies in picture-books.

(But sometimes I saw their faces,

so I knew. And there was that day

when one stared back at me

and spoke, mind to mind,

just for a few moments, before –

as they always did – she vanished.)

One of my friends

was a bit like my Grandpa,

but younger and taller.

He and Grandpa both

walked and talked with me

among the ferns and flowers.

They both answered my questions;

both showed me, minutely,

the beauty of insects and grass,

trees and birds and clouds –

but not at the same time.

This wise friend was another

only I could hear and see.

(He never showed me

the mask with the ibis beak.

I found out his name later,

when a seer friend told me

who he saw around me, describing

other details I recognised:

'Oh, him. I know him! He's always 

been here. My old pal.' 

Never, therefore, awed.)

It's a hard thing for a child,

not being believed. 'Tell the truth!'

they say – and you are, but even 

your parents, who promise they love you, 

are sure it must be a story, something 

you made up. They think it's clever. 'What 

a wonderful imagination!' But later

they start to worry. 'She lives too much

in her dreams and fancies. It can't
be healthy.' So I learned 

the habit of keeping secret 

certain things that were real.

I knew even then, without

the words and concepts I have now,

that trees have souls and consciousness,

that every blade of grass 

sparks with Divine fire,

that the earth is alive, that God

is the great Mother – I 

her priestess if she will –

and knew her face, 
evanescent, glimpsed in dream,

flickering in the variety 

of her faceted world,

as exquisite, eternal beauty.


* Words of St Augustine, translated by Helen Waddell and quoted exactly as above in her book on Peter Abelard. (Part of a longer piece of writing, the rest of which she doesn't quote.)


I'm linking this to The Tuesday Platform for July 26 2016 at 'imaginary garden with real toads',