Deutsch: Die Meisterin des Lebens. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
merciful goddess
such compassionate goodness
(womanly essence)
embodies your soul
melds eastern and western worlds
cherry blossoms rain
Today, over at dVerse Poetics, Kelvin invites us to write of things Asian. I chose Quan Yin, the goddess of compassion who, as I see it, mirrors the Virgin Mary in Western Culture. Both figures capture the essence of feminine beauty.
Adam and Eve (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Temptation
An Acrostic
(Eve)
Try not to think of how you’ll feel tomorrow,
Even God can’t know the wonder of this fruit.
(Adam)
My dear, don’t you remember words of warning?
(Eve)
Perhaps God’s trying to keep us from the truth.
Take this; come on. Just try a morsel.
A snake told me that we would be just fine.
The Tree of Life has nothing like this apple.
Indeed, it offers neither food nor wine.
(Adam)
Only a tiny bite, only this one time.
No one will ever know. HEY, this one’s mine!
An old one, linked now to dVerse Poetics where Mary tempts us to write about, what else, temptation. Crawl on over and see if you can resist!
Today at dVerse Poetics, Karin Gustafson invites us to write about the color green. This is a very rough draft of a poem I’d started years ago and never knew what to do with it. The rhyme and scansion are atrocious, but I submit it as is, for now, for the message. “Annie” is a composite of two patients I cared for in a nursing facility–both named Annie. There is some truth, some fiction to the story. If you are so inclined, let me know in comments what you see as the underlying message.
Annie
Annie—her name, as I recall.
Trouble dogged her through life.
A sad life, on the streets,
they whispered in the hall.
Her son wasn’t “normal,”
or so they reported.
Who knows who’s his daddy?
an old wag retorted.
She spoke not a word,
only stared out the window;
took meals in her room
so we nurses conferred.
Couldn’t get her to change,
to emerge from the hurt
of a life of abuse,
from her choices so strange.
Then one day in November
she made this request,
“My green bathrobe,” she begged,
“It will help me remember.”
I searched through her closet,
found nothing resembling
the color she wanted,
on hangers, in boxes.
That night after work
I stopped by the mall,
found just one jade-green robe
that I took to the clerk.
In the morning, her eyes
lit the room, and her smile—
made it all so worthwhile,
a delightful surprise.
Late that night, she expired,
they called me to see,
her hands held the fabric
the green she required.
That robe was her shroud
and a photo I’d found
in her fingers I placed
of a woman so proud.
A green robe she wore,
in her arms was a baby,
That one thing she cherished,
the child she bore.
No one knows the story
of the life that she chose,
but the wearing of green
was her peace and her glory.
Early pale-pink dawn
egret rests at water’s edge
in shut-eyed prayer perhaps
contemplating pleasures
of inviolate freedom.
Of a sudden, flinging
white wings wide-open
he soars into the freshness
of a flawless new beginning.
Photo: Graham Owen
Over at dVerse Poetics, Brian Miller invites us to write a poems using random words offered by a friend or chosen from pages of a book. I chose mine from the poetry of Mary Oliver. I cannot get enough of her work.
The words I happened upon: Nouns–pleasures, egret; Verbs–fly, fling; Adjectives–pale-pink, unviolated; Random–prayer, edge. This is a wonderfully creative prompt. I hope you will join us! They fit a scenario I witnessed this morning!
Le monde, en hiver, se depouille,
attend le retour de la vie.
Et comme la terre, moi aussi,
j’ai soif de l’amour, de la pluie,
de toi, qui seul peut me rempli.
Tu vas, sans parole, dans la nuit.
Je me trouve, sans espoir, dans l’ennui.
Reviens, bienaimé, je t’en pris.
Ne te cache toujours, sans souci.
Photo Credit: kurskroot.com
A Non-Poetic Translation
The Dark Night
The world, in winter, empties itself,
awaits for life to return.
Like earth, I also thirst
for love, for rain,
for you who alone satisfies me.
You leave me, without a word
in the middle of the night.
You leave me without hope, bored.
Come back, beloved, I beg you.
Don’t hide yourself forever, without care.
Fred Rutherford, over at dVerse, has us writing poetry in a foreign language, or using some foreign words or phrases. I tried to recover some of my long-lost French. Forty years ago, I lived in a somewhat monastic setting in France. That’s why this poem took me where it did.
Any of you who know French, please feel free (encouraged to) make corrections! It’s been a long time.
La Tour St. Joseph, St. Pern, France
There’s a certain slant of light—
the way the sun slices through half-opened blinds,
of a late afternoon in autumn,
a single star and fireflies
on a new-moon night.
There’s the sound of cricket calls,
a desperation to be heard,
the creak of wood-on-wood,
the texture of a rocking chair,
thick white paint, over paint that tells
the tale of those who came before.
There’s the taste of tears,
so many drops of loss,
the flow of pain down rounded cheeks,
my mother’s soothing touch.
That’s when I learn, too soon
(curled up upon her lap)
of death. There’s always that.
Over at dVerse Poetics Stuart McPherson invites us to tell a growing-up story. Yesterday a neighbor passed away and this brought to mind my first understanding of death. I was barely of an age to remember, but the details and circumstances of the telling are clear in my memory. Interestingly death has been a constant companion throughout my life as a nurse in the field of death and dying.
The title of this poem and first line come from the poetry of Emily Dickinson.
Photo Credit: darkroastedblend.com
Contrails etched in the newborn sky
burst into flames at dawn.
Diamond-studded acres of frozen snow
bristle at sun’s caress.
Photo: listofimages.com
We descend the mountain road
into a bowl of milky fog,
creep forward through thick mist
then emerge beneath its weighty layer.
Photo: Alex Boywer
Mono Lake Fog
There lies Mono Lake, still and peaceful
as light breaks through in the East
illuminating her surface into
a pool of liquid silver.
A gilded strip on the horizon beckons.
We rise again through the miasma,
We arise to crisp blue that shimmers,
shivers, surrenders its secrets.
In the desert, Joshua trees, tipped
in gold leaf, bow at our passage.
Photo: tripadviser
Contrails etched in evening skies
burst into flames at sunset.
Photo credit: joabess.com
We’re arrived in the desert after a two-day drive. This stunning trip never ceases to amaze me but this winter topped them all. I wanted to pull over and take photos every few miles but because of the conditions, it took longer than usual. Wish I could find the words to describe the PEACE and beauty that this dip into nature brought to me…and Peace in the theme Mary has invited us to consider over at dVerse Poetics!
The night before I plan to take down the Christmas tree,
I crawl from beneath the covers, slip downstairs
and curl up on the couch to read stories of our life together.
The tree rotates, a swirl of colors, as ornaments recount
the years. 1991—“Our First Christmas,”
two critters snuggled in a hollow log.
Photo: D. Slotto
The merry-go-round of the tree unfolds the years,
one-by-one. Cycles of remembrance unfurl—
the hard and happy times, the growth, the losses.
Upstairs you snore gently. Sometimes we sleep
and overlook those subtle changes—the waxing
and waning of our marriage, of our shared love.
Photo: D. Slotto
At eleven o’clock (you set the timer) the tree goes dark.
I steal back to bed, hold tight our memories, hold on to you.
Photo D. Slotto
Christmas 2012
Arriving late to the pub for Claudia’s prompt on change. I wish each of you much joy and good health as we wind up 2012 and plot our course for the coming year. I will be traveling this up-coming week but will do my best to keep in touch.
Each year “Santa” places a new ornament on our tree. The tree rotates and is set up on a timer. It’s all put away now.
Photo: D. Slotto
i.
sometimes you strain to garner magic
that supposed-to-be-moment
of days set aside to remind
us of this or that but snug
within your core of pretend-this-is-special
simmers a memory, an understanding
that this frou-frou feeling
inauthentic grasping of what-used-to-be
stands for something more.
ii.
down the street at the end of the cul-de-sac
an old woman lives alone
a mostly dark house with tight-closed
shutters and peeling paint
shielded from neighbors’ bright-light-christmas
oh-so-white reindeer on the lawn
rearranged by kids one block over
humping.
iii.
wrapping paper
bows
presents
neglected now in disarray
iv.
in the kitchen an argument ensues
it’s too early to put the turkey
in the oven remember last year
how dry it was
v.
from the den loud snores
emanate
uncle jack drank too much again
same as always
vi.
in here
alone
my thoughts prowl meaning
sun pours through the half-moon
window above the door
that later in the day
will welcome others
we haven’t seen or spoken to
in months
vii.
my dogs relax
cuddled at my side
backlit by rays
content and cared-for
knowing we are present
viii.
i get it then
that’s what today is all about
Linked to dVerse Poetics, so ably hosted by the talented Karin Gustafsen. We are invited to think of presents/presence. I had this poem, which may have been previously posted, that works! BTW, keep in mind…I am a FICTION writer. This is a fictional attempt to encapsulate a truth. I am a die-hard celebrator of Christmas, not the commercialism so much as the Presence, the underlying meaning, the magic and the memories. Merry Christmas–Happy Holidays to you all.
Disclaimer: Adult Content. This is a dark poem, based loosely on a situation I knew of. I fictionalized it as a short story years ago, then carried it over into a poetic format. It is highly embellished fiction. I am linking it to dVerse Poetics where Fred has written an incredible instruction on Acting, Poetry and the First Person Narrative.
Family Reunion
Her arm dangles,
an unnecessary appendage on her right side.
Eyes-squeeze tight–
block out light and sound.
Shove the window ajar, somebody.
Let fresh air filter in.
Her ebony caregiver,
brandishing a
Caribbean accent and a mound of cornrows,
towers over the husk of the Woman,
shovels spoonfuls of
gruel into a flaccid mouth.
Paste trickles out the
corner of chapped lips,
slithers onto a bib.
Fifty years ago she adopted me then set me aside
like a toy she grew bored of.
I look at her shattered body.
Why so much Fear?
There they sit-
caged in frames on her nightstand-
the Woman’s three birth-children:
two girls and a boy.
Staring at nothing.
The son at twenty-one, a senior
at Columbia, off’d himself.
Paprika freckled face, red hair
splattered on the dorm wall.
Beneath Brendon’s body lay
a report card: a
B+ on some damn test.
Mallory, the middle daughter,
split at eighteen.
Tall, anorexic,
her sallow complexion highlighted
bruises on her neck.
The girl didn’t try to hide her
passion for exotic,
erotic amusement.
Defiance of the Woman who viewed
pleasure as an interruption
in the Business of Life.
In 1989,
the Woman received a call from New
York City.
Mallory died; a bad lot of Heroin,
the warden said.
They know how to get things past us.
Mallory was in prison? the Woman screeched.
Yeah.
Second-degree
manslaughter of a john.
He wanted her to do things
she didn’t like.
Her youngest daughter, Jessica, can’t
leave her own home.
Only way I can control her,
Jessica confided to me one day.
I’m tired of being her trophy:
dusted off
and shown to company.
Agoraphobia, she explained.
An excuse to not perform on demand,
my mind corrects.
Jessica shops from catalogues and fills
the empty rooms of her Brentwood mansion
with unopened boxes of china.
Her husband lives in West
Palm Beach with his mistress.
It’s been fifteen years since
I visited Jessica.
Anemic,
drawn,
chain-smoking:
casting a tacky yellow film
on the kitchen counter.
She gave me a jar of peanut butter.
No bread, no crackers.
Not even the fucking china.
Just a spoon.
When her mother dies she’ll light
a charcoal fire in her bathroom,
slip into a tub full of bubbles,
then into nothingness.
That’s what she promised.
A loud groan snaps me back
into the room.
Clattering dishes
smash onto the floor.
The woman sweeps a disfigured hand
across the tray.
She’s done, the aide says,
You’re the only one who’s visited her
in months.
She doesn’t respond to anything, anyone.
We’ll see, I answer.
Do you remember?
I start out,
lead her back in time.
When you took us . . .?
We ramble down the alley of the past.
She smiles.
Do you remember Plato?
That damn dog, she sighs
as Cornrows gapes.
Clear as can be she says it:
That damn dog.
We wander through the
olden days,
pluck memories,
one-by-one.
When I mention Cape Cod,
half her lip turns upward.
We need a minute alone,
I tell the attendant,
then pull my chair closer.
Do you miss your family?
The Woman turns,
faces me with open,
opaque eyes.
You’ve paid for the past,
I whisper,
gather the withered relic
into my embrace.
It’s okay to go now.
She closes her eyes,
Bends her head,
accepts forgiveness.
Lifting her head, she stares at the
pea green wall.
Tears spill down
rumpled cheeks.
I kiss her brow then
leave the room.
When I turn to study her one last time,
a glorious half-smile spreads
across her face.
I love you,
I toss into the
almost-empty room.
(As much as I can.)
Within the month
she escapes.
Jessica holds true to her promise, too.
Today they bury the two of them
beside the others.
The whole family,
together.
