Unanswered Messages

Oh, what mystery there is in silence! The mind rushes in to fill the void with imaginings. You are no longer the dear you I think I knew before; you become an amorphous, shifting proliferation of possibilities. The human mind is hard-wired to attach meanings to all phenomena. So the absence of communication doesn't stay simply that; I make it mean this about me and that about you, many thises and thats. I make it mean that someone is wrong, someone is to be blamed. I did something wrong, therefore you don't communicate. Or your non-communication is you doing something wrong. Or maybe neither: perhaps circumstances are to blame. Perhaps your computer is broken, or lost, or stolen. Perhaps you are busy, or tired, or sick, or dead. Something is to blame, something is wrong. It cannot just be: a thing in itself. Nature doesn't abhor a vacuum nearly as much as that part of nature called the human mind does.

the air turns cold
after the sound of rain
ceases


I came across this journal entry from some time ago – the prose piece – and thought it just needed a verse added to become a haibun.

Linking to The Tuesday Platform for Feb 6 2018 at "imaginary garden with real toads".  I am shifting my (future) poetry to a new blog, which I did not anticipate when I posted this one. It seems kinda appropriate / ironic that the last one here is about unanswered messages, which might even be unread – so, by linking, I am making sure it is read!

A Ghazal On Whether the Beloved Is Aloof Or Touchy-Feely

A ghazal, we are told, should be melancholy
with craving the Beloved. Heavens, what folly!

Who, then, is this elusive Beloved? Golly –
it seems that the longed-for one is the most holy.

Yes, God. And who's that? A Santa, roly-poly?
Or a Jehovah, much less cuddly and jolly?

People seem to see God as masculine wholly,
whether that figure is Almighty or lowly.

But let us consider this carefully and slowly.
Perhaps as Great Mother we perceive Her truly.

Then, do we crave hugs She might give to a dolly?
Do we hunger for the sweetness of a lolly?

I think She must be rather more than that, surely!
Nor would She separate Herself from us coolly.

OK, I'll tell you the truth of it. (Or shall I?
Who of us knows the truth of anything fully?)

Nevertheless, I can make a sortie or sally.
Know this: I was once with Hafiz. I was really.

A seer told me this – and he was not merely
a charlatan, I promise. So you must rally.

You must set your will to accept I see clearly.
Poor Hafiz. In that life he was off his trolley!

He got it wrong about God. Well, it was early
in our understanding. Now we guess more nearly.

It is true we've always known God loves us dearly.
Therefore She will never depart from you, silly!

She is not trivial or fickle or frilly.
Neither is the path to Her side steeply hilly.

The one who tells you this is speaking truthfully 
from deep Remembrance ... if not strictly ghazaly.


Written for dVerse "Meeting the Bar – The Ghazal".
I added a further constraint, rhyming every line rather than just every couplet. On the other hand, I ignored the refrain. However it's more un-ghazaly in mood than form. 

[Fellow-Aussies, please applaud me for having resisted working in "Up there, Cazaly!"]

After reading all the beautiful poems others have written to this prompt, I feel a bit ashamed. Perhaps I'll try a serious one too in the near future. (Though actually this one does have a serious message underneath the play.)

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.

'Plenty of Time Later,' You Said

Dear, one day

I might die,

and most likely

(we could suppose)

before you do.

Such a thing

need not matter –

need not sound

the faintest bell

inside your mind.

Already you stop

the taking in

of my presence

in the world.

I am erased.

The real erasure,

when it happens,

will be anti-climax.

You are wise,

are you not?

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.

The Opening of Doors

I usually barge right on through, and usually

there is some light on the other side, even

when one might think I’d have done better

to leave that door shut. Sooner or later 

there is always light – some – and  often

a late burst of unexpected brilliance … and

sometimes the door opens onto sustained

sunlight, and I need only enter and bask.

And there are times when I’m just here, 

and a door opens to let someone else 

come through, towards me, and that 

can be sweet or exciting or possibly

nothing at all – but nothing demands nothing, 

which is restful; and so, one way or another,

I tend to like it when doors open: I tend to see it 

as a good thing … for the most part, anyway.

Best of all is when doors become irrelevant:

when, instead of traversing some boundary or

entry, some turning-point or edge, we rise

skyward, unfettered, on waves of pure thought:

lifting into flight, cavorting on clouds, floating

and dancing in long arabesques, ethereal

pirouettes … which pleasure is encompassed

even better together, and so let our minds 

entwine. Meet me in the middle of the air!

The final sentence is stolen from a Paul Kelly song based on the 23rd Psalm. This particular line, which he inserts into it, is by Kelly himself and not the psalmist – and has different connotations from those I give it here.

This poem was inspired by the Doorway(s) prompt at Poets United this week.

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

Doors

To visit Melbourne

re-opens a door

on a life,

on a man –

your father, son.

Well, it would.

When I visit

I always stay

with you, dear,

and I remember….

He’s dead now.

It’s 23 years

since he went.

How on earth

can that be?

As for you,

suddenly you’re 50!

The blonde curls

of the boy

no longer exist.

The old doors

to the past

open and close.

We’re still here.
New doors open.

Linked to Weekend Mini Challenge: Doors at 'imaginary garden with real toads' and to The Poetry of Three on facebook.

Full Moon, Dark Moon

The Full Moon

huge and golden

seemed to bounce

to our rhythm

as we rode

that tiny motorbike, 

hired from strangers,

fast and eager

alongside the paddies –

to make love

our first time,

in dreamy Bali.

Many months later,

back in Melbourne,

I heard you

that last time –

riding away forever,

further and further,

your own bike

large and purring

across the night,

while I lay 

awake, listening long,

at Dark Moon.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Dark Moon, New Moon

Also written for the facebook group THE POETRY OF THREE, Three Words Per Line

My Favourite Metaphor for You

(courtesy of 'The Little Prince')

I didn't keep

the fox poster

that spoke of

you / our love /

your death, in

a secret language

made of images.

I had written

the fox poem.

I thought that

pain enough – more

would be wallowing  –

but now seek

other fox pictures.

Their different landscapes

are immaterial. For

it's the fox

I crave, vivid

against any backdrop,

coming towards me

shy yet purposeful....

Bit by bit

I tamed you

with my words,

with my love;

but could, finally, 

not save you

from the hunters.

Written for The Poetry of Three facebook group.

When I Came Here (Shadorma)

When I came

to this place of trees

their welcome

embraced me

and when I lay in your arms
enfolded us both.

Written for 'imaginary garden with real toads': Fussy Little Forms: Shadorma.

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)

Promises

I signed, 'Love forever'. He replied:

'Forever is a long time to love. How about, 

Love – as long as you're still

the person you are today.'

(It was a promise, not a question.)

He died soon after. 

Decades later, 

love appears to be forever ...

after all, he is still 
the person he was that day.

Exercise: 55 words (excluding title)

Ghazal for —

Where shining joy was the most blended with piercing pain;

of many loves – all true, all lost – you are that one.

We meet in dreams, and in my memories, again

and yet again. It seems, briefly, death has not won.

‘Shall we meet once more in another life?’ I asked.

‘Nothing surer!’ declared my friend the magician.

With that I must be content as the slow years pass.

I was angry a long time that I must go on.

How full and rich life became for me after all.
Yet, still haunted, I never say your name, dear  —.

You owe me something. I will hold you to it, soul-

bound of old. I am your love. I claim reunion.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Reunions

Letter to a Lasting Love

Little Prince, I loved you at first sight. 

When I came to know you better,

your inner beauty matched and deepened
the sweet exterior, so my love deepened too.

I grew more intimate with you; at first 

swiftly, immediately, filled with increasing 

excitement and wonder ... astonished, rapturous.

Then even closer and better: leisurely, gradually.

'Time cannot weary nor custom stale.' I return

again and again, sometimes after long absence –

yet, you are never truly far from me. Your words

whisper often in my innermost ear, sound in my heart.

Oh excellent teacher and friend, I am and am not

possessive. I hold your physical body close, clasped

to my breast. Yet I share you with many. Once you lent 
one man and me your language (before he returned to his star).

Responding to Magaly's irresistible prompt at 'imaginary garden with real toads': My Dearest Book, I Wrote You a Poem ...  
(But the phrase in quotes is, of course, from Shakespeare.)

Fallen

Will you not come,

lonely and broken,

to drink from my eyes

the love you are craving,

to receive from my hands

a softness like flowers?

I thought you would. I thought 

I could touch you, gaze on you, 

give you enfolding,

a caress like sleep

or the fragrance of roses

inhaled gently.

But then you let me see

the hard light of your stare,

let me hear the cold 

in your careless laugh.

The mask fallen can't be replaced.

It is I who am broken, lonely.


(Not directly autobiographical. An experiment in style as much as anything else.)

Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #369

An Old Love Story

 A friend on facebook wonders, what is the event she’s marked in her diary as ‘My event’ for August 8. I can’t help her. I can’t guess what significance August 8 might have for her. But the date pierces my heart.

I think, ‘No, that’s my event.’ But it’s not even mine. It was his – his birthday. He died eight days before it in 1982. (Gods, can it be so long?) He would have turned 25.

When I start to have my ‘anniversary reaction’ during the winter months leading up to the date of my dear husband Andrew’s death, in September 2012 when he was 83, that is not the only anniversary I’m reacting to, not the only death. 

My two greatest loves, so far apart in time – how appropriate that it is winter that brings those deaths back for me, with bleak cold. 

Then comes the consciousness of being alone. I don’t normally mind that. I keep busy; I like my own company; I’m content. But at this time of year my aloneness confronts me. It becomes loneliness. It becomes an abyss. Do I hear a wolf howling? I shut my ears, make myself busy….

a sudden chill

the date of your death
arrives again

In the memoir I’m writing, I’ve been frank, so far, about the men I’ve loved. But not this one. This is the one I never speak of – though I do write poems. 

Very few people know what he meant to me. (Few know anything of him at all.) Those who do were there at the time; they saw it all play out. Some others may have guessed, but if so they have never dared ask. 

Really there are only two who understand completely. It has been remarked on between us possibly three or four times in 35 years. The hurt is still deep; and after all, there is nothing useful or even needful to say. We know. We know that we know. That is all. (That is everything.)

our eyes meet

he lives in the unsaid

our friend who died

There was one other. Just one time we spoke of it. We talked for hours; we said everything. We always knew we would. We’d waited years … and still we needed to get drunk together first. He has long disappeared; no contact for decades, no knowledge for either of where the other might be. It’s probably better so. 

Then there was a friend I made much later, who read my selected poems and asked, 'Rosemary, who died, in your life?' (This was long before Andrew died.) So I told her the story, in outline. She could barely grasp it. We have never mentioned it again. That was years ago; I think she has forgotten all about it by now.

did we exist

if no-one knows? 

– Zen koan

Shall I write the tale at last? What could I say that anyone who didn't live it alongside me could possibly understand? I could relate the facts, but what could they truly convey? 

I might tell it one day, but not today.

So was he my true love, the love of my life? Oh, all loves are true! And all loves, when true, are for life. Andrew, with whom I had a life, a happy one for 20 years, is the one I most acutely miss. That other, who died before he was 25 – which was shock as well as grief – has been the longest dead.

After he died, I wrote: All my years / you’ll go on being dead. They stretched before me interminably, then.

All those years ago, I learned everything about intense grief. All these years since, I have come to know that grief never ends, though we learn to live with it. 

I would have died to save him, if it could have saved him. I live on. I mourn. I relish life.

blue skies

you will never see –

winter sun



I didn't share even this very widely at the time I wrote it! Finally linking it, over two years later, to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #498

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'.)

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

'My Heart is a Ghost Town'

... the man sings, lamenting

love lost, a lover gone

and I think, never mind my heart, 

my head's where the ghosts reside

of lovers gone – never lost –

the talkative ghosts

who haunt my old age

pleasantly

as we reminisce, and finally 

resolve our stone-cold issues ...

good to have a yarn

for old times' sake.

Written for Flash 55 – PLUS! 3 June 2017 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.