Discovering Three Pratchetts Not Yet Read

I'm sitting up in bed last thing at night

reading Terry Pratchett – one of my grand-

daughter's books, which I seized on with delight

when I discovered it so near at hand.

I’m visiting for Christmas. It's all right 

that I'm in her space; she’s a good girl, and

is young enough to like the blow-up bed

she gets to use in the front room instead.

Or else she sleeps on a trundle mattress

in the study, but anyway I get 

her room and her bed and – what happiness –

three books of hers by dear Terry Pratchett:

Sir Terry, whose name I shall always bless

for Discworld and its inhabitants – yet

this is tinged with some grief. Though they live on,

their gently humorous author has gone.

They are ‘young adult’ books, a genre I

often choose for its own sake anyway.

I may be regressed, but I don’t know why

I need worry about that. Reading’s play

in my book (ha ha ha!) and I’m not shy

of admitting this. Could there be a day

without a book in it? No, not for me –

glad I’m still here, in bed with Terry P. 

Winding up the month (and year) with a final offering for the Poetic Asides Ottava Rima Challenge.

I'm also sharing this with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #384, the first after our 2017 Christmas break.

Happy New Year, dear readers!

The Roses I Post on Facebook

My hobby is to photograph roses.

I like to find them growing in gardens.

The good God, whom we are told disposes

all things, knows how a heart sometimes hardens,

therefore is using me (one supposes)

to remind others of love and pardons.

Each comes with a message, unique each day –

yet all the same really. 'Be Love,' they say.

When I visit my family down south

in the temperate climes, I thrill to see

gardens full of roses. They spill and froth

and crowd and dance, and almost sing for me.

(Or is it that songs burst from my own mouth

in my joy that so much beauty can be?)

At home I photograph roses for sale

in hot-housed bunches … but still beautiful.

The words I add to these posts are simple

wishes for peace, for love, for happiness,

for a bright day – nothing original.

Yet people cherish them, feel that they bless.

I do go into my heart for them all –

risking banality, seeking sweetness.

Whether they come from within or above,

each message is really the same one: ‘Love!’

And again, an ottava rima for the form challenge at Poetic Asides.

Also shared with The Tuesday Platform for 9 Jan. 2018 at "imaginary garden with real toads".

There's Nothing Now

There’s nothing now that I can do for you,

and how it hurts my heart that this is so.

My sky has darkened from its sunny blue

as I discern that yours is thick with snow.

I always held to what I knew was true –

only to wonder now if I did know.

We were each other’s shelters once; that’s gone.
Like swords: the cutting rain, the piercing sun.

A combined ottava rima / ghazal, for the Poetic Asides ottava rima challenge. (Or rather, a quasi-ghazal – since, among other things not present here, a ghazal should have at least five couplets ... whereas an ottava rima cannot have so many.)

That Sentimental Place, the Past

She dreams of roses. Her father grew them

when she was a child, in all the colours

roses came in then. She remembers him

tending them closely. He would be outdoors

morning and evening, flexing his green thumb

(he hoped) outside his daily working hours,

and longer on weekends. The hues and scents

he revelled in, she treasures … and laments.

Yet another ottava rima for the Poetic Asides form challenge

Also shared with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #387

On Going Within

I speak into a void. He, Hermit, goes

so far into his cave, no-one can see

his lone attempts to heal his current woes.

I don’t know if he’s even hearing me;

he’s possibly so deep he never knows

that messages are sent at all. Will he

restore himself by hiding as in womb –

or does he pull around himself a tomb?

Another ottava rima for the Poetic Asides form challenge

Sharing this (nearly a year later) with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #428

Time Off

for Julie

She’s gardening, before the weather heats

as morning widens into brightest day;

before the dense humidity repeats

its everyday assault. Meanwhile I play

indoors with poetry, creating feats

of formal exercise – the kind I may

do seated: scanning metre, choosing rhymes,

while she indulges in more physical pastimes.

We’re both on holiday, and catching up

with things which called us in the busy year

but were perforce passed over. Now, to stop

does not mean inactivity. The dear

preferred preoccupations fill each cup

with our own versions of post-Christmas cheer. 

She brings me a tomato, tangy-sweet.

I try for poems good enough to eat.

Another ottava rima for the current Poetic Asides challenge.
It came second!

Also sharing with The Tuesday Platform for 2 Jan 2018, at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

And What If Light?

‘And what if light surrounds us like a song –

or what if we are made of singing light?

You cannot prove these propositions wrong,

no more than I can prove that they are right.

Yet what if we had known it all along –

that light and music meld beyond sound/sight?

What difference might it make to you and I?

Perhaps we’d live more lightly, perhaps fly.’

He whispered these reflections to the air,

sending them out upon a rising breath –

then bent again to tend the garden, where

beneath the plaques folk rested in their death.

A woman came towards him, crying, ‘There

is where I want my dears, in solid earth

where I can come and talk to them and pray.’

Her tread was heavy as she moved away.

Around the grave-beds, grasses, flowers and trees

firm-anchored in the soil, while stretching high

into the air, moved slightly in a breeze

as if they danced – as if they’d almost fly.

Wind in the leaves made soft noise; humming bees

thronged the flowers. The sun rose in the sky.

The insects and the birds moved through the day,

uncaring of what he and she might say.

Another ottava rima for the Poetic Asides form challenge.
Also shared at the latest Tuesday Platform, for 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Un-Scrooging

It’s Christmas time, and I do not believe

in all that crass, commercial carry-on.

I like to give. Most focus on ‘receive’

this time of year. The feasting, though, is fun.

I did that twice, the first on Christmas Eve;

then Christmas Day we fronted up again.

I must confess, the presents that I got

are great. ‘Bah, humbug!’ doesn’t hit the spot.

I had good conversations. One young man

regaled me with his fishing expertise;

I matched him catch for catch and line for line,

our heads together half the evening. He’s

a schoolboy, still a youth of just sixteen,

while I am far into my seventies, 

and yet we found such happy common ground

each counts the other now as a new friend.

On Christmas Day we dined with son’s old mates

(several I have known since they were small).

The hours of well-spaced courses, fun debates

with smart, like-minded people did not pall –

music, movies, books, fish, cheese, desserts …

we rose reluctantly as evening fell,

and drove home peaceful, happy and replete.

So now, goodwill to all! My life is sweet.


Another ottava rima for the Poetic Asides challenge.

Later: Although it is now far past Christmas (February, in fact) I am sharing this one with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #390

Secretly Super

These copper cuffs that ornament each wrist

are solid copper, not mere coated tin.

I trust that my arthritis may desist

as this good metal swiftly does it in.

And look – they also help me to resist

all evil, crime, wrongdoing, error, sin.

Raising my crossed arms like Wonder Woman

deflecting bullets, I’m an Amazon!

Another for the Ottava Rima challenge at Poetic Asides

Prodigal Friend

I had not looked for him these many years.

It seemed I must resign myself to fate.

Despite a sense of loss, there were no tears,

and certainly no reason to await

a reappearance. No-one reappears –

do they? – after such a lengthy absence,

such an unrelieved and total silence.

Yet here he is, with thanks upon his tongue

for all the truth we shared a decade past –

and suddenly I’m roused, as after long

and peaceful slumber, opening eyes at last ...

awakening to dawn and daylight, song

of early birds crescendoing, and vast

blue skies unfolding to the spreading sun.

Written for the Ottava Rima challenge at Poetic Asides

(12 Aug 2018) I've just removed first and last lines, which were banal and unnecessary, so it's no longer a proper Ottava Rima; maybe I could label it a truncated one.

(Oct. 2018) Also linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #423

We Gathered in the Sacred Grove

We then fanned out into the forest, each of us picking a tree:

our brothers and sisters who, like us, love you, Goddess of Light.

Goddess of Shining Light, we see your radiance; let it be

that which awakens us from the fearsome horrors of the night.

You are arising and shining, Goddess of the Forest. See,

we are here, who adore you – you limpid flame, you flaring bright.

Each of us stands with a tree, side by side, sharing all we be.

It is a custom here, and so it seems to us good and right.

We sing with strong voices; our breath, helped by the trees, pouring free.

Joining together to love you, we become one in your sight.

This ancient ceremony

is yours: oh love, oh delight!

Written for the Meme prompt at 'imaginary garden with real toads': using the 7th sentence on page 13 of a handy book as inspiration for a love poem.

The first line of this poem is the sentence, or as much of it as was on the page. The book (read as an ebook, so page numbers don't necessarily conform to the paperback edition) is Fairies of the Wild Wild Moon by Vyvyan Ogma Wyverne. It seemed fitting, given the source, to make this a love poem to the Goddess.

It also seems to fit with Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Nature: Her Words

And it's an attempt at the chanso form recently aired at Poetic Asides.

The Misunderstanding

I said into her mind, ‘Today you can

come with me if you wish.’ I only meant

she could attach her mind to mine and see

and hear and feel and do alongside: scan

my own experiences and share. I sent,

I thought, that message. Sadly, she

received it literally, stood by the door

as if with whiskers spruced, bag packed, intent

and ready, proud to come along with me

on business. Had to tell her, ‘Sorry – you’re
Cat, see.’

Written for the curtal sonnet challenge at Poetic Asides.

A Vain Pursuit

I search in facebook and my email box

in a vague play of eyes and finger-tips

for something – anything – I don’t know what.

Except I do. I want to smash the locks

that death instals so deftly: kiss the lips

of those I loved, as if alive. They’re not.

And friends I used to talk to when online

have nothing new to tell me now; their quips

and loving wisdom stilled, while bodies rot.

Likewise, they don’t absorb one word of mine,

though I pine.

Written for the curtal sonnet challenge at Poetic Asides
Also linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #371

The Light Seems Holy

The light seems wholly blue when I look out

from my front door, discovering the day:

a day of starkly brilliant winter sun.

The dark blue mountain range right opposite, 

the vast and shining blue of morning sky,

pervade the street below. 'Thou art the one!'

I sing to Life (for God is Life, we're told).

On such a day, my soul must dance and fly

in sheer delight, pure joy that I was born.

This moment is the whole. This truth I hold:

all's one.

Written for a form challenge at Poetic Asides

In Difficulties

I wrote a curtal sonnet but it stank.

I needed all of 14 lines to say

the whole of what I had in mind; present

a thesis that would float before it sank –

in fact not sink at all but stretch and play,

its movements elegant and confident.

Instead, alas, it doesn’t wave but drown.

Without room to manoeuvre, there’s no way

to save it – what I meant as eloquent

is chopped abruptly, three lines short, shut down
unspent.

Written for a form challenge at Poetic Asides

On Not Going Home Again

Across remembered waters, bay and sea,

the island lies that I will not forget,

the one I know I'll never see again.

The mountains and the rivers nurtured me.

In memory the crashing waves repeat

their rhythmic play on ancient cliffs of stone.

Old forests grow unhindered, thick and tall,

fed well by rich dark soil, by gentle rain –

in memory. In fact they've since been cut,
the lakes and streams polluted, air made foul.

All gone.

Written for a form challenge at Poetic Asides

Nomenclature

He's asking us to write a 'curtal sonnet'.

I told him once before, the word's 'curtail'

(as in truncation, lopping off) but he

persisting with his error – set upon it –

will judge our efforts. I don't want to fail.

I'd better just shut up and let it be.

They call me grammar Nazi; spelling too.

I like precision to the nth detail.

And Hopkins said 'curtail', so why not me? ...

Oh, never mind the name – just write one, do!

(Or three.)

Written for a form challenge at Poetic Asides.

(Adopting a bit of a persona for this one. I don't REALLY think I'd be failed for cheekily correcting a spelling mistake.  And actually, it turns out he's right, I'm wrong! I have now ascertained that 'curtal' is a variant of 'curtail', and is indeed the word used to describe this form.)

Card for the Day

I chose my Tarot card for the day

from a recommended site online,

glad to see it was the beautiful Empress.

But the accompanying reading

was bullshit. (Oops, my French – pardon me!)

Why reinterpret the card that way

when the meaning is perfectly fine

as it is: Earth Mother / Mother Earth / Goddess.

Maybe charlatans think they’re needing

to be different to earn their money?

I ignore the rot they had to say –

rot that diminishes the Divine

which the Empress card is designed to express.

I know what it really says, seeding

a way that I can be, and shall be.

A way for me more fully, this day,

to embody Divine Feminine:

filled with Her unconditional Love, no less,

Her nurture and compassion, leading

to oneness with nature, strong and free.

I’m glad to walk in Her grace today,

receiving the gift as wholly mine 

by which I am blessed, and by which I can bless

others I meet, who may be needing

to be loved, nurtured, allowed to be.

(Not the card I pulled. This is the Empress from my Tarot Muchas deck, 

shared here according to Fair Use.)

Inspired by a prompt in Words Count by Mama Zen at 'imaginary garden with real toads' – but this fails to conform to the 60-word limit for that one, because I decided to use it for the rimas dissolutas challenge at Poetic Asides instead.

(Then I did write one in 60 words, on a different card. It's here.)

Btw, did I mention that I'm a professional Tarot reader? Far from helping, it probably limits my flexibility with such a prompt, LOL.

A Photo of a Rose

This rose, a gift from her lover

(in whose garden tenderly grown)

tells her she too is exquisite –

more treasured than any other.

No longer need she stand alone

to wait, yearn, anticipate, wait….

Roses do not last forever

but love is constantly reborn

in the ever-renewing heart,

not needing as a preserver

poem, photo, or anyone

to assure her that this is right.

Yet for beauty’s sake, moreover

affection, I take it upon

myself to hereby celebrate!

As the rose reflects the giver

equally with the gifted one,

I rejoice that now you are met.

Written for the Poetic Asides rimas dissolutas challenge.

And linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #357

Living on the Rim

How amazed I was when I read
a description of the ocean as green –
but that, I saw, was the Atlantic,
which I do not live beside.

The ocean, always, in my head
is the bluest blue you have ever seen –
deep blue, sparkling, sunny, romantic,
and vast, huge, gorgeously wide.

Never mind what others have said
about other seas where I have not been.
I’m drunk with love for the Pacific
and its thunder-crashing tide.

When I lived close, I’d lie in bed
paradoxically lulled in-between
the rhythmical roars – the volcanic
great ocean at my bedside.

Living on the edge, I am ecstatic
for this bluer beauty, this wilder side.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Ocean(s)
and for the Poetic Asides rimas dissolutas challenge.