Wendy Rule's Concert, 31 Jan - 1 Feb 2018

To Andrew

The full moon singer

live on my computer

is in America, next to a mountain.

It's cold there. She is dressed

in warm black pants and jacket,

red beret and hiking boots.

She plans to see the dawn, 

she tells us, after her singing.

Here in Australia, it's midnight.

I'm still in sarong. The electric fans

are still blowing air around my living room.

The sky outside is black with cloud. 

Between songs, Wendy reminds us:

the blue moon blood moon super moon,

Leo moon of creativity and sovereignty,

is present though we cannot see.

So are you, whom I also can't see

except in my mind. When 

did you not celebrate full moon with me?

When did you not watch an eclipse

alongside me? When didn't we 

attend Wendy's concerts together, here

on her visits to this our magical home

under our own mountain?

I know your spirit is with me tonight

as she casts the circle. Here in the South 

it's Lughnasadh, aka Lammas, a time 

of early harvest. I gather up in thought 

blessings that form my harvest, including 

you and the times we had together.

In the Northern half of the world it's Imbolc,

beginning Spring: new life. And I renew.

For Midweek Motif  ~ Moon at Poets United.

Musician Wendy Rule, an Australian now based in Santa Fe, is also a witch who casts circle at all her concerts. You can still find this one on YouTube.

Summer Evening

The heat cools to comfortably mild.

I look out the front door

and see, on the top step,

my dear man taking the air

in his chair on the landing.

Our pantherish old black cat, Levi,

sprawls near him on the mat.

Tortoiseshell Freya is curled up neatly 

close by on the second step.

And there's me. I am sitting  

on the top step, leaning back

against the rails: positioned to see,

talk to and touch all three....

             *********

It's five years ago and more. 

All of them are dead now.

Even on such a pleasant evening

I never sit, these days, on 

the front steps, enjoying the air.


Sharing at Poets United's Poetry Pantry #388.

Featured by Sherry at Poets United in Poems of the Week: Furry Feline Friends We Have Known and Loved, along with poems by Toni Spencer and Susan Chast.

Change and Light

As spirit animal, the dragonfly is connected to the symbolism of change and light. – Elena Harris: Dragonfly Spirit Animal and Totem

When she came to see him in the hospital 

when we knew he was dying, she said,

'On my way here I received a message.

I am to tell you to arrange with Rosemary

a sign, so that after you move

to a different dimension, whenever

you are with her, she will know. It might, 

for instance, be a butterfly.'

After she left, we talked and decided

butterflies are too common. I could easily

explain them away as not really

signifying. I had to be surer, so

we chose instead the dragonfly – 

seen in these parts, yes, but so rarely    

as to be significant. And it has been so – at first

those moments when I missed him most acutely.

Dragonflies would burst from a bush

right into my face, or land on the door of my car

just as I was about to open it, or skim across

a rocky pool ... always in immediate

response to my thought. Sometimes I would even

open a magazine straight to a picture.

Then, at a Sunday market in a strange town,

I found an antique mourning brooch.

It is crafted from woven hair, in the shape

of a dragonfly with all four wings outspread.

I took it to mean he is always with me, 

or can be any time I choose to bring him present.

I wear it seldom now. My need is less. Assured

that he is close, I can live without reminders. (Only

sometimes, still, if I have a moment of sadness,

a living dragonfly appears from nowhere, and I know.)

Written in response to Bits of Inspiration ~ Dragonfly at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

A Conversation with My Late Husband

He tells me, "You need 

male energy around you. It's OK

if you have new relationships. Later, 

we'll be together forever. 

But for now ..."

"Listen," I say, "I like 

being with me now. (And 

with you, still so present in spirit.)

For the rest, my little cat

is my new love, my sweet, my treasure."

Exercise: 55 words (excluding title)

July Nights: Sequence

July nights

darkness brings a chill

I’m alone

I huddle

into my jacket

deny cold

turn on light 

and warmth to cancel
memories

already

five years ago, still

I shiver

(It's winter in Australia – and time for my 'anniversary reaction'.)

Prelude to a Romantic Weekend

Arriving on my doorstep suddenly

he thrust at me a bunch of roses, red

for passion, offered awkwardly,

suggesting now would be the time for bed.

My house-mate and her children, luckily,

were going out. I whispered what he’d said,

that he’d decided we should ‘break the ice’.

She winked and said she’d stay out longer. Nice!

We’d planned a beautiful weekend away

to change our new romance to an affair:

a seaside venue meant for holiday

where we could play, let down our hair …

but that was some time hence, he said – and hey,

we’d want to be relaxed then, free of care

about performance, revelation, trust,

and all those issues that might hinder lust.

And so we had our first time then and there

inside my double bed, too long unshared.

Now, understand, we were not young; we were

the later end of middle age. We bared

imperfect bodies to each other’s stare

and moved like adolescents newly paired –

like clumsy virgins! But we worked it out

quite soon. And yes, his bright idea was right.

                            ******

In twenty years of happy marriage, till

he left me when the angels called him home,

we loved each other thoroughly and well.

Reality was sweeter than a dream.

And memories can sweeten my heart still,

as if he never left – so it can seem.

He loved to give me roses. In my head

he still says: ‘Get yourself some roses – red!’

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Flowers, and simultaneously for dVerse Form for All – Ottava Rima.

Clearing Out the Wardrobe

I was ruthless –

didn't want to keep

an empty shrine

of all your clothes

without you in them;

made the choice not

to open the cupboard,

look at them and cry.

I put them in a collection bag

I knew would be taken

far out of town, away 

from local op-shops

and the chance I might see

someone else wearing them –

even a whole lot of someones,

none of whom would be you.

I wanted them out of the house.

You were still here, lingering

in every room, walking

along the passage, sitting

at your desk in front of the computer

or in your favourite armchair.

I didn't need or desire 

physical reminders, I thought.

Of course I was too hasty.

Grieving, I caught a cold,

put myself, sneezing, to bed.

A bed without you in it

to cuddle and warm me.

I curled in a ball anyway –

but how I wished I could wrap myself

in your old green flannel pyjama jacket.

Written for Sanaa's inaugural prompt for day 19 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads': to write about love, using a common everyday image.

Because the Roses

Because the roses were red, my dear,

deep red, hinting at black, and you

thrust them at me, schoolboy awkward 

despite your white hair, but your blue eyes
shone – I, pink with delight, said yes.   

Written for Day 4 of April Poetry Month (aka NaPoWriMo) at 'imaginary garden with real toads': Tuesday Platform – 'The ink is black, the paper’s white… Write a 5-line poem containing three colors.' (Mine includes black and white as non-colours.)

The Habit of Love

Sometimes I think you're still here,

in the bedroom, maybe, 

and will soon wander into this room,

come and stand behind my chair

with an arm across my shoulder,

to see what I've been writing;

or you'll switch on the news on TV, 

or start preparing our dinner. 

It's been four and a half years,

but sometimes I still think you're here, 

just down the passage, 

about to come into this room.

I look up, expecting to see you 

bend your head and smile.

I almost hear you say my name.

I almost feel you kiss me.


Linked to The Tuesday Platform for March 21 2017 
at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

A Place in Space and Time

Tonight Professor Brian Cox

is taking me to Venice – 

and I can't believe it's 19 years 

since I went there in my own body, 

and saw the glass-blowing at Murano too,

and visited Renaissance paintings

huge on old palace walls.

So many years ago and still so vivid!

The husband of my heart 

was with me then.

Now the long-limbed Professor,

laughing with boyish delight,

takes me up to the heavens –

the moon, the planets, the stars,

the Milky Way; the Earth from space

rising in a half-circle, swelling like fruit – 

an apricot, an apple ... but it's blue.

And I begin to think instead

of my blue-eyed husband – now an angel,

wandering the stars without me.

The title belongs to Episode 4 of the BBC's 'Human Universe With Brian Cox'.

I'm linking this to Midweek Motif ~ Nostalgia at  Poets United

Dear Filing Cabinet

You look so square, solid and ordinary.
A bit battered in places, the paint wearing off.
You are two, looking like one, side by side
so closely touching there is no separation.

This half belonged to me, that was Andrew's,
used in our own offices in every home we had
until after he died, and what was his became mine.
So I placed you together. You always matched.

And yet the contents are different now, re-arranged.
I made the occasion a big chucking-out
of obsolete bills, and receipts that even the tax man
no longer wants. Detritus of a lived life.

I spread myself, my records, over the whole space.
Some of it still isn't filled, all these years later.
There are gaps. And there are secrets. Old poems
written in code, by a man I loved before.





I'm linking this to the Tuesday Platform for 7 Feb. 2017 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

They Leave Themselves Behind

Walking down the hall, I see

through one door, Andrew 

at his desk by the window

(where the second bed is now)

pantherish Levi snuggled at his feet;

or glimpse Freya through glass

reclining outside in sunshine –

cats and man, all gone,

always remaining.

Written for dVerse quadrille #15: leaves / leave.

Featured by Sherry at Poets United in Poems of the Week: Furry Feline Friends We Have Known and Loved, along with poems by Toni Spencer and Susan Chast.

Again

‘Are you well?’ they ask. ‘You look tired.

Your energy seems a bit down.’

‘It’s August again,’ I don’t say,

and don’t add, ‘My “cruellest month” ’.

All those remembered deaths,

none of them old yet – and the new one.

It creeps up slowly, even though I think

I’m well prepared. I forget hollowness –

until it insinuates itself, again, inside

my bones, my veins, the cavities of my gut.

The empty spaces in me, which are me, are

microcosms of the great spaces in the world

left by your unique absences: holes that can’t

be refillled. Can’t ever. But the weeks pass

again, and I move again past your passing,

your several passings, as I did each first time.

Perhaps it is as well, my dears, you die in August

or the first edge of September, or the last day in July.

The Spring arrives again, the world looks up

and thrives, filling itself with life, that starts anew.

And my life too goes on. So far. Of course

I feel myself immortal, as we all do – as you did

(most of you). But now again it’s August.

I don’t go out much, get dressed late.

I buy myself wine and chocolates

and romantic DVDs; indulge alone.

And nothing fills the hollow, lights the dark….

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just busy.’ Again and again.

Written in response to Voices, Spaces & Songbirds at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

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

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

Recurring Dream

In this dream

you are here again.

We’re talking.

Just that.

No special revelations.

Just you and me.

Just talking.

Friendly. Ordinary.

About nothing much.

The small

deeply important

matters of day-to-day.

It isn't the words.

It’s your head close to mine

on the other pillow.

It’s the warmth between us

unremarked,

not needing remark.

When I wake 

and know,

it’s not so bad any more.

There are always tears

of course

but also gladness.

I understand it’s a dream

of wish-fulfilment. And

I know the dream is true.


Sharing at Prompt Nights: Dreams

Rainy Day Flower

A flower was offered to me

on a wet day. The wide green leaves

were heavy and glossy with rain.

It was a larger than usual gardenia,

the scent of its radiant bloom

intensified in the misty air.

And that is my favourite flower.

Nevertheless, I turned away, walked past 

as if I failed to see the arm held out.

I turned away, and said in my head

to my invisible companion: Dearest Andrew,

I'd rather be in bed on this wet day.

If you were here, as flesh and blood, 

I'd like to be in bed with you all day, 

snuggling up, cuddling, reading.

We'd bring snacks and cuppas 
back to our bed. Now and then we'd nod off,

singly or together. We'd rise around 4,

do a bit of writing at our separate desks,

feed the cats, get our dinner, watch

some evening telly. Then we'd go back to bed

in the same warm pyjamas. Then 

we'd make love. It would last all night.

We'd have amazing dreams by morning....

A flower was offered to me. I turned 

as if I'd not understood, and moved away. 
To embrace armfuls of deathless flowers.


Written in response to Sumana's Midweek Motif prompt at Poets United: A flower was offered to me

But it's Good

But it's good to have these times
when you come and sit beside me
as if alive – the same questioning smile,
the slightly wicked glint in your eyes –
when I park in a spot that holds
particular memories, of some past
and probably unimportant incident
(in the larger scheme of things) 
… but nothing's more important.



Written for Flash 55 Plus at 'imaginary garden with real toads' (55 words, plus the idea of two, in this case two people)

Passages

Sometimes, working late, I hear

a thump on the door, and think,

'There's my old cat wanting to come in' 

though I know it isn't, and can't be, 
and won't. Never again. My cat is dead.

***

Deep night.

That mournful sound:

faintly, a plane going over

high and alone up there,

droning its way away

dwindling into distance.

***

That tree, a weed not pulled,

grew fast, filling my skyline.

I try to remember now, and can’t –

had it even begun as a tiny shoot
when he was still here to see?

(Written as separate gogyoshi, then I discerned a theme.)

Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #280

Coming to Rest

I was in Venice with you, and

Kathmandu with you, and Cusco

with you — beloved cities.

They are gone now, irrecoverable,

not what they were (places of singing,

shining) seventeen years ago.

Is Venice still sinking? Kathmandu

is rubble. The people are old, we knew

in Cusco. And you are dead, my dear.

I’m glad to remember those cities, our cities;

and glad to be here, home, remembering
you, my journey’s companion.

At dVerse Poetics we are asked to write 12 lines including three words that mean a lot to us (mine are 'Venice', 'Kathmandu', 'Cusco') and three words describing people or things we're grateful for (mine are 'remember', 'home', 'you').