Sun and Moon 4
night without moon without stars
dark sand dropping
filling my mouth
I walk the lonely bed of a dried up river
when I stumble in my dream
my feet leave no footprints
colourless is my path
through shadow and sand
figures of darkness
conjured before me
hollow their eyes
their mouths black caverns
no flesh decks their bones
footless they sigh
a sibilant song
mindless they draw in
a net full of sorrows
silver fish darkling
losing their sparkle
Sun and Moon 3
at midnight Serpent slithers through
a gap in the fence of my dream
he slides close to my shivering body
and lies there chill against my skin
his length – a sword without a scabbard
unscaleable wall of unblemished steel
severing all warmth
“Tomorrow,” he says, “I will take you to the sky.
But first, you must watch me dance.”
he twists in circles winding and unwinding
infinite loops and figures of eight
endless cat’s cradle of bottomless shape
sleep draws my feet deeper into quicksand
the night wind whispers me a head full of dreams
Sun and Moon 1
Last week an old man squeezed the moon;
tonight, she’s a shrunken orange in the sky.
“Tell me, Moon:
when all the stars have been caught in my net,
what will I harvest?”
Silence descends a ladder of moonlight
bearing an offering of gift-wrapped stars.
“Wise Old Woman who lives in the sky:
what man tore your bones apart
and gave me your face?”
Dead leaves rush out through my eyes.
My hands stretch out before my face
and I wash them in moonlight.
“One day, I’ll climb to your silver palace
and steal all your secrets.”
Comment: Sun and Moon 2 (as sung by Cat Leblanc) is introduced and complemented by Sun and Moon 1. These are the first two poems in the ten poem title sequence of Sun and Moon. The eagle costumes, shown in the photo, belong to the original dance sequence from Sun and Moon as performed on Monte Albán.
Sun and Moon 2
Eagle paints my eyes with daylight.
He offers to fly me to the sky.
His feathers trap sunshine in his pinions.
Morning is a rebozo draped over his plumage.
“My mother is blind,” says Eagle.
“Her sight: cold ashes in the fireplace.
Stripped of her dreams,
she wanders in darkness.
You must give her
the fire from your eyes!”
Tiger offers to carry me to the sky.
Flame speckles his pelt.
His eyes are two scorched blocks of charcoal.
“I will break the bread of your bones,” says Tiger,
“and warm myself on the fire of your blood!”
Serpent offers to bear me to the sky.
His scales are shards of emerald and ruby.
His serpent’s blood runs cold through his veins.
He weighs me in the twin dice of his eyes.
“Where I lead you must follow,” Serpent says.
“There is no other price.”
Comment: Here as promised are the words to yesterday’s song as composed and sung by my good friend Cat Leblanc. This is the second stanza from the ten poem title sequence of Sun and Moon. Here is the link.
Sun and Moon
My poetry put to music: a new venture for me. This is Cat Leblanc’s version of Sun and Moon. I’ll add the words later. In the meantime: thank you so much for this Cat. Beautiful voice, beautiful music: a Fredericton, New Brunswick singer who is well worth following.
Old Eight Hoots
Winter has touched us
with this change of clocks
and darkness clutches now,
an hour or so too soon.
Old eight hoots watches:‑
he calls; I cough;
but he will not swoop.
He sits tight‑perched, out of sight;
chills me with his ghostly chorus,
hoo‑hooing me home.
Bright stars crackle the sky.
Frost crisps fallen leaves.
A mist weaves webs scarce‑seen.
And all around,
as cold ground creaks
its wordless tongue‑leafed language,
night‑shapes abound.
Pony
for Jude
(and the WYPOD)
“A pony, a pony, my kingdom for…” Of course,
he didn’t want a pony. He was losing the battle
and the kingdom’s sceptre is not a baby’s rattle
to be tossed aside, even for the fastest horse.
Ponies and palfreys are not for kings. A princess
may ride a pony, and a side saddle, fit for a queen,
may grace a horse’s back, but a horse between
a princess’ legs is crass. How cramped the dress,
how wrinkled the nobleman’s brow seeing
his daughter, his wife, the female of the breed
straddling, legs apart, a broad-backed steed.
No: ponies are for Christmas, not for kings fleeing.
A horse, then, hung with bells, covered in red:
not with ribbons, but the old king, flayed and dead.
Brandy Cove
for my cousin
Frances
who lives in
Australia
I remember helping our nana
climb the steep slope
from the beach to the headland.
“It’s easy, nana,” I said. “Look!”
I leaped from tussock to tussock,
up the path, each patch of grass
a stepping stone leading me upwards.
She stood there, below me,
breathing hard, her left hand
held against her chest,
just beneath her heart.
“I’m catching my breath,”
she said, panting.
I ran up and down, then held out
my hand to help her.
It was so long ago.
Who now will hold out
her hand to help me
as I too age and grow
slow?
In Praise of the WYPOD
(Cheryl, Jude, Judy, Julie, Rachelle)
and
My Other Blogging Friends
How do I love you? Let me count the ways.
I love you when together we start to write
for although you’re always out of sight,
you’re never out of mind. So many days
we’ve spent sitting at keyboards, tapping
at computer keys. Is this the way to please
each other, a choosing of words, a squeeze
of meaning into a smaller space, overlapping
metaphors and images improved in ways
we never dreamed of on our own? Each
to his or her own, we say. Yet we reach
out to each other over time and space,
not joined at hip or lip, but with energy and zest,
sailing similar seas, and trying our very best.
To be Welsh on Sunday
(This poem should be read out loud,
fast, and in a single breath!)
To be Welsh on Sunday in a dry area of Wales is to wish,
for the only time in your life, that you were English and civilized,
and that you had a car or a bike and could drive
or pedal to your heart’s desire, the county next door,
wet on Sundays, where the pubs never shut
and the bar is a paradise of elbows in your ribs
and the dark liquids flow, not warm, not cold, just right,
and family and friends are there beside you
shoulder to shoulder, with the old ones sitting
indoors by the fire in winter or outdoors in summer,
at a picnic table under the trees
or beneath an umbrella that says Seven Up and Pepsi
(though nobody drinks them) and the umbrella is a sunshade
on an evening like this when the sun is still high
and the children tumble on the grass playing
soccer and cricket and it’s “Watch your beer, Da!”
as the gymnasts vault over the family dog till it hides
beneath the table and snores and twitches until “Time,
Gentlemen, please!” and the nightmare is upon us
as the old school bell, ship’s bell, rings out its brass warning
and people leave the Travellers’ Rest, the Ffynnon Wen,
The Ty Coch, The Antelope, The Butcher’s, The Rhiwbina Deri,
The White Rose, The Con Club, the Plough and Harrow,
The Flora, The Woodville, The Pant Mawr, The Cow and Snuffers …
… God Bless them all, I knew them in my prime.
Comment: When I was living in Wales, back in the fifties and the early sixties, the country divided itself into counties that could drink alcohol on Sundays (wet Wales) and those that couldn’t (dry Wales). There were twelve counties in those days and people commuted from the dry to the wet, on Sundays, if they wanted to drink. Some took the wet / dry divide very seriously. Others didn’t. Where do I stand? I refuse, even now, to say. But check out, very carefully, the attached photo. Not every rugby coach has his name engraved on a beer spigot in a rugby club in Santander, Spain. Happy St. David’s Day, everyone. Dydd Dewi Sant Hapus.
rogermoorepoet 