Last Night in Cusco

We waited for Wendy in her hotel foyer. It was an old hotel, just off the city centre — cool stone walls; plants on balconies; polished tables; graceful stairs. I tried on the cone-shaped black felt hat I bought at the market — not the tourist market; the people's market where Wendy took us, down near the station. As soon as I put the hat on, I saw pulsing flashes of light all around the walls and the high ceiling. I took it off. The lights vanished.  

a slender woman

walks up a slender staircase

tall green plants in tubs

Wendy arrived, all in black as always, with her own hat of high white straw, wide-brimmed, and her big smile. We were to meet three of her Peruvian friends. Just as they arrived, she received a message. The President's daughter was ready to take her to meet the President. Wendy's mission in Peru was to set up shelters and trade schools for homeless kids. She couldn't miss this opportunity. A brief apology, and she left us with her friends. She introduced them by name, but always spoke of them collectively as the Angels. They were a thin young man and two women: one young, shy, quietly pretty; the other older, full-figured, dignified. 

she dresses in black

with intent: the uniform

of the grandmothers

The Angels wanted to meet us because we were Reiki Masters. A man had come to Cusco only a few weeks before, and taught them hands-on healing. They were still thrilled, and wanted to compare. After a quick discussion with each other in Spanish, they took us to the young man's home, in a tiny old car that chugged alarmingly up the steep streets. We piled out at a high, blank wall. He opened a small door in the bottom right corner. We bent our heads to go through to a courtyard. Doors around all the inner walls. One was his; he let us into two dark rooms with weak overhead lamps.

rooms without windows

the blue of the Cusco sky

is legendary

They told us about their way of healing. "We pray," they said, "And light comes into our hands. May we show you?" 

We stood in a circle. The older woman prayed in Spanish. I don't know what she said. We had no Spanish much, beyond "Hola!" When she finished, she invited us to look at their hands, at little sparks of light dancing all over the palms. Then we all noticed Andrew's and my hands sparkling too. Everyone got very excited, pointing and gabbling. 

she stands in prayer

her speaking voice is music

on our last night here

They told us the light was a gift from the angels. I asked if the angels could explain what happened when I put on the black felt hat. She took the hat in her hands and closed her eyes. At length she told me it had belonged to a humble shepherd who prayed a lot to Jesus. She said I could summon Jesus whenever I put on the hat; it was full of blessings because of the goodness of that humble man. I supposed that the light-giving angels told her this, into her mind, while she stood with her eyes closed.

We felt nothing, no sensation; but the sparks of light continued for hours until gradually slowing, fading. We left Cusco next day. We never found out what words were used in the prayer.

in a small dark room

we meet with angels of light

farewell to Peru

April Poem A Day Challenge 2014, day 29: magical realism
(a realistic poem and a magical one, or both in one)

Also submitted for dVerse Meeting the Bar — the haibun

Settled

We settle down on the bed again after breakfast, 

we three, the cats and me, all of us elderly now 

and free to indulge — though they are freer than me, 

and can stay here all day if they will, and in fact they will

until I give them their lunch (the small dry biscuits 

that keep their teeth clean and strong) after which 

they'll wander outdoors awhile, now that the weather's autumnal: 

cooler than the worst heat of summer and not yet chilly winter 

whereas I, when I finish the coffee I brought back to bed, 

and finish this morning's poem, shall rise at once 

to go out into the world — where, too, I am settled, 

into my familiar lifestyle: the small town, 

the old and new friends, the little cafés, 

the trees and the nearby river.  

April Poem A Day 2014, day 28: a settled poem

Based on the “Stretching the Sentence” exercise by William Wenthe in Wingbeats: Exercises & Practice in Poetry (Dos Gatos Press, 2011)

Favourite Monster

I loved you, Godzilla,

and my little boys loved you,

at the local drive-in

forty-odd years ago;

and their father as well,

who is dead now ...

but you, dear Godzilla, never die,

not even when you're attacked

with gigantic versions of the sparklers

we used to wave on Guy Fawkes' Night,

all sizzling and coruscating

and bouncing off your hide.

Poor clumsy Godzilla,

not even faintly humanoid,

but lumbering and alien

and rather dumb,

so slow you came across

as the underdog.

I mean, you couldn't do anything 

with grace, elegance, finesse or panache —

your special effects were creaky.

We didn't even speak the same language!

You were weird (not in a good way).

You were the big ugly. You were just wrong.

Yet there was something about you.

We felt you were misunderstood.

We blamed it on your upbringing.

We knew that somewhere within

you were really good — anyway,

we were on your side. You became

our favourite monster (even dearer 

than sad, persecuted King Kong).

What a pity you couldn't win an Oscar.

You could have brandished it high,

in in-your-face triumph: "This

is for all the misfits!"

Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 unported, 2.5 generic, 2.0 generic and 1.0 generic licence.
|Description={{ja|1=石川県珠洲市のゴジラ岩}}
|Source=投稿者が撮影。PENTAX LX + smc PENTAX-FA★ 1:4.5 300mm ED & IF
|Author=名古屋太郎
|Date=2006-11


April Poem A Day Challenge 2014, day 27: a monster poem

Published in She Too, a collaboration with Delaina J Miller, Helen Patrice and Leigh D C Spencer (Kansas City, Content X Design, 2014) [See right side-bar]

Linked (April 2016) to Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month: Poetizing Japanese Folklore  (Godzilla is modern Japanese folklore; I say so!)

Doing the Usual

At the quiet end

of an autumn afternoon

the rain comes down

softly and steadily.

I open a Shiraz,

make some conversation with the cats,

fetch my cardigan

and check the TV program.

It's almost as if you're still here.

I half-expect, any minute,

that you'll call from the bedroom

or walk from your office

to share the wine, the TV, the cats....

This morning at my market stall

I put my clients in touch 

with their dear dead.

Invariably I'm moved to tears

by the depth of love

the dead have for the living,

and my clients cry too.

I was you today, at the market,

doing the rounds of the other stalls early.

But I didn't get your abundant

bundles of fresh veggies —

not for only one.

It's BBQ chicken tonight,

to save cooking.

The cats will demand their share.

I'll give them less than they ask

(not as soft as you were)….

A nice night to be in,

as rain and evening arrive together.

Like a blanket, darkness
wraps us round.

April Poem A Day Challenge 2014, day 26: water 

The Last Straw Poem

We didn't know it would be the last,

hadn't exactly planned it that way.

When it was finished, we thought it

as decorative as the rest,

as well-constructed.

But then those poets down the road

built the first wooden one.

Everything was instantly different.

The rules had completely changed. 

(Nice it was, of balsa, light and graceful.)

Then, of course, everyone tried.

The timber used grew thicker.

This didn't always produce 

the most tractable results,

but they were lasting.

In time came the bold

experiments in metal. 

And now a new departure

thanks to the internet:

cyber-poems, lighter than air.

I came across it the other day,

that last straw poem,

forgotten in a cupboard.

I wondered at its primitive ephemerality — 
but it was sweetly woven.

April Poem A Day Challenge 2014, day 25: a "last straw" poem

Dag's Verse

What a bonzer tour! (Don't chunder.)

The Royals came Down Under,

both looking very chipper,

and I'm glad they brought the nipper.

Our PM Tony Abbott,

a monarchist by habit,

is set to slash the pension,

but that wouldn't get a mention

in official conversation

as they traipsed around the nation,

nor the planes he's gone and bought

though we think he didn't ought.

It was smiles and waves and toys

(for big and little boys)

in the headlines and the snaps,

the tweets and brand-new apps.

They attended the Dawn Service

with a solemn air of purpose,

then they came back for the march....

Now the crowds are feeling parched.

Let us raise a glass my friends,

as the ANZAC shindig ends

(and so does my daggy poem)
to their right royal journey home.

At dVerse we are invited to try a "dagsvers" — a Nordic tradition of daily rhyming verse on items in the news. In Australia, of course, "dag" means something very different. How could I resist?

Tell It to the Wind

"Tell it to the wind," said Ramtha*

"And I will hear you, I'll be there."

I used to do that sometimes

when I lived out under a big sky —

that wide swirling-space for the wind,

and the vast expanse of stars

far away from the blinding 

lights of cities. 

Always

I felt his presence in response.

That was a long time ago,

though it seems so fresh.

Even in this little rural town

the street lights are shining, 

and the sky between the mountains

is often overcast, windless.

Somewhere along the way

I almost forgot Ramtha.

I don't remember why

I spoke to him in the wind —

what I wanted to say,

what I thought he might reply —

but I was lonely then,

at the silent end of my second marriage.

Widowed after my long and happy third,

I do miss someone to talk things over with….

*Ramtha. A channelled being who came to prominence in the eighties.

April Poem A Day Challenge 2014, day 24: "Tell It to the —"

Meeting in Coles

Her chair looks heavy and solid,

though it glides quietly

through the Pension Day crowds.

"Does this make life easier?" I ask.

"Yes, and quicker. 

If I walk, even with the trolley,

it can take hours.

Anyway, how are you?"

"Not too bad," I say,

"All things considered."

She laughs and splutters. "Yes, 

that about says it here, too."

A sweep of her arm takes in

the chair and the pile of shopping.

She's trying to help her husband

load it on the checkout tray. 

The store radio doesn't just hum, 

it roars. Trolleys around us clatter.

A child squeals incessantly.

The fluorescents glare.

"Take that kid home," 

she says sotto voce, and to me,

"Don't you think that radio noise

is much too loud? I keep telling them."

The one trouble with the chair, 

she confides, is it won't fit in the car.

"We have to take the maxi taxi, and

they won't park outside our house.

"Poor old Patrick has to take 

all the shopping across the road

and then up our front steps." How old 

is Patrick now, I wonder. I don't enquire.

"Are you online?” I ask. "Think about

Coles' delivery service. I used to use it

when Andrew was alive." My mind goes back

to hauling his walker in and out of the car.

"I will!" she promises, and I don't add,

"Then you'll be that little bit more

house-bound." I know, and she knows,

there are no easy choices.

April Poem A Day Challenge 2014, day 23: a location poem.

Linking also to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #204

Cinquain for Phillip

April Poem A Day Challenge 2014, day 22: Two for Tuesday — 
an optimistic and a pessimistic poem. This is the pessimistic poem.


Forget

global warming –

you cook dates in curry!

Now I know civilisation
is doomed.

Comforting Myself

My little cat is old and ill

but so far in no pain.

Her cancer's growing slow.

When I lie down for a nap

she comes and purrs with me,

but when I start to dream

she moves away

as if she too can see

the crowding images

that seem so real.

With such a bond

between our spirits,

surely it will stretch

to keep us connected, later?

April Poem A Day Challenge 2014, day 22: Two for Tuesday — an optimistic and a pessimistic poem. This could be both in one, but I'm labelling it optimistic. The pessimistic poem is in my next post.

The Basics

Now that I'm old and widowed
I meet up with my kind,

and all those single ladies

are of a single mind.

All their immaculate houses

quite put mine to shame.

In Domestic Goddessry,

they're at the top of their game.

"I don't want Help," they tell me;

"It gives me something to do."

They wait expectantly,

quite sure I'll say this too.

But I'm a weirdo poet

and live a different life.

I like my house OK

but I am not its wife.

We all get back to basics

our own ways, I suppose.

I should pay more attention

to vacuum and garden hose.

But needing something to do

that badly fills me with horror.

I have poems to write —
the dishes can wait till tomorrow.

April PAD Challenge 2014, day 21: back to basics

(Also back to basics poetically, with the loose ballad-like form)