In Laud of Light
Sun, moon, and stars
wait, day and night,
outside my window.
I sometimes glimpse
the crackling shimmer
of Northern Lights.
They crown me
with joy and pleasure,
treasures I will treasure
until the natural end
when stars, sun, and crown
come tumbling down.
I will be left alone,
seemingly naked,
yet clothed in
an eternity of light.
Comment:
Hunter Moon in Island View, NB.
Pure chance – I looked up, and there it was.
Oh to be clothed in such a glorious light!
Solitary 1 & 2
1
They drove me there,
passed through the gates,
unpacked my trunk,
chatted with the head,
shook my hand,
then drove away.
The metallic clang
of the closing gates
still lives with me.
How old was I?
Six? Seven?
I no longer know
and there’s nobody
left alive to tell me.
I remember so well
the woodgrain on the desk,
the carved initials,
the loneliness that bit,
the barred windows
of that empty classroom.
2
An only child,
taken away,
left among strangers?
Why, why, why?
Doubt’s pinball
bounces round
my empty skull.
What am I?
Who am I?
Why am I?
How did I become
whatever it is
that I became?
mea culpa
mea culpa
mea maxima culpa
Was I the one to blame?
Comment:
I prefer it as two poems, rather than a poem and a commentary. It may even be better written in the third person. I’ll have to think about that! It’s always a good way to work. Thank you to all who commented, by email or otherwise! Your comments always help me think, and re-think.
Solitary
They drove me there,
passed through the gates,
unpacked my trunk,
chatted with the head,
shook my hand,
then drove away.
The metallic clang
of the closing gates
still lives with me.
How old was I?
Six? Seven?
I no longer know
and there’s nobody
left alive to tell me.
I remember so well
the woodgrain on the desk,
the carved initials,
the loneliness that bit,
the barred windows
of that empty classroom.
Comment:
Looking back, I wonder just how and why I ended up in a series of boarding schools, starting when I was only six years old. What does that abandonment do to an only child, taken away, and left among strangers? I still have nightmares and wake up screaming, from time to time.
Why, why, why? The pinball of doubt bounces round the interior of my head as I struggle to plot different paths, different ways, how life could have, might have, been so different.
I guess that schooling, force fed, made me what I am. But then the pin ball starts again – what am I? Who am I? Why am I? And how did I become whatever it is that I became? Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa – was I then the one to blame?
A Touch of Frost
1
Cooler nights
have brought
a touch of frost
to higher ground.
At night,
temperatures fall.
By day,
they build.
I watch as Autumn,
finger on lips,
tiptoes
through the garden.
2
With a wave of its wand,
winter threatens.
A gust of wind
swirls the leaves,
bears tufts of snow
dancing round the tree.
I watch
as my grandchild grows,
my child grows older.
She has a gentle
touch of frost,
a grey fringe
at the curl’s roots.
When I glance
in the mirror,
I see the full effects –
drifts of snow
gathered on my head.
I look
at my beloved.
Her hair –
a crab apple tree
in full spring bloom.
Comment:
Nice to add a new poem of my own to this poetry page. Today’s poem came as a result of discovering Moo’s painting – A Touch of Frost. Painting and poem, painter and poet – a great collaboration.
Then There’s The Nights … KTJ
As a child my days were good.
Full of wonder and being misunderstood.
Growing and learning without knowing love.
But always guided by the Lord up above.
The days were filled with hope in my sights.
Then there’s the nights.
Trying to make sense of my life in a bed I did not own.
Fighting demons no child should ever fight alone.
Dreams of monsters under the bed.
Thoughts of not belonging filling my head.
Longing for a normal Mom and Dad.
Crying myself to sleep and feeling sad.
At 14, I thought I was grown.
Stealing my food and living alone.
Leaving behind a brief life with my dad.
Street life was hard, but it was all that I had.
The days seemed to pass by all right.
Then there’s the nights.
Fear of passing by where the dead lay to rest.
I’d stand with my thumb out and hope for the best.
I was told it was the living I should fear.
But my mind was confused
and my thoughts were unclear.
Sleeping in ditches and dreaming of a home.
No one to care for me, I was alone.
Years passed by as if in slow motion.
People came and went, playing on my emotions.
More than one marriage, with hopes of a happy home.
Each time I was sure I was done being alone.
I kept telling myself life was sunny and bright.
Then there’s the nights.
Sleeping once again in a bed I didn’t own.
Waiting for a husband who does not come home.
Anger and confusion running through my head
Wondering if he was sleeping in another woman’s bed.
I wanted to scream and demand he be true.
But you don’t have that option if someone’s abusing you.
I’ve finally made it to the last quarter of my life.
I no longer desire to be anyone’s wife.
I have my independence and a loving heart.
I want love, but I also need time apart.
To grow and learn and miss the ones I love.
I have been truly blessed by God above.
Then there’s the nights
Sometimes sleeping in a bed, I don’t care if I own.
Nights full of contentment for me and me alone.
I’ve let go of the dream of two hearts and souls
intertwined as one.
Finally, my worries and grief are done.
The rest of my journey will be full of peace and love.
Once again, I thank the good Lord above.
Comments
Yesterday, I posted a painting that KTJ associated with one of her poems, Addiction. Last night, my friend, Moo, painted this painting which accords with one of KTJ’s poems entitled And then there’s the nights. This is the lead poem in her first poetry collection, I am my tattoos. This linking of the verbal (poetry) with the visual (a painting) has been a technique I have used before. The movement between visual and verbal often generating a shifting pattern of colors and images in the reader’s / viewer’s mind. These collaborations between artists are very productive. Long may they continue.
NB If you, dear reader, would be interested in writing for one of Moo’s paintings, just drop me a line, or leave a note in the comments section.
Addiction
Joy, desire, companionship, laughter,
sharing feelings, caring, and dreaming.
Two people so alike in many ways,
painfully different in others.
All my cravings, and desires
set out before me in a beautiful world
so different than my own.
A broad chest to lay my head on,
listening to a heartbeat
that is not my own.
Strong arms holding me close,
providing comfort.
Cool grass between my bare toes,
earth from the gardens
embedded under my fingernails.
Like an addict,
craving love and validation.
Basking in the glorious
short-term feeling of bliss.
This world, this person,
both my drugs of choice.
Fantasy, then reality,
going from one to the other,
walking out of fire into
an ice bath over and over.
A fantasy world
hiding beneath
a dark cloak of reality.
Comments:
It’s funny how your paintings speak to me. As soon as I opened this email, my first thought was… this is the perfect painting for my poem “addiction”. The colors and the art work bring to life the sentence, “like walking out of a fire and into an ice bath”. KTJ
So, here we are – the poem and the painting can now be found on the same page. I don’t usually put other people’s poems up on my blog. However, should any of my readers be inspired by one of Moo’s paintings, and should that reader decide to write a poem about it, I would happily consider publishing both poem and painting on this blog. No money involved – my pitiful pension won’t stretch that far.
No promises. But an interesting start to a new idea.
Pax amorque –
rogermoorepoet.
What sacrifices have you made in life?
Oh dear, so many, many sacrifices. Here, let me count the ways. This morning, for breakfast I sacrificed a banana, followed by an orange. Last night, for supper, I sacrificed a lobster – and it was lovely. I thanked its spirit for allowing me to nourish myself upon it. Then, for lunch, I sacrificed three eggs and cooked them in an omelet. You know what they say “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs”. Nor can you be a robber baron without breaking legs. Sorry. Wrong post. That belongs under “Have you ever broken any bones?” To which my answer is – “Only those of other people.” Maybe I’ll write that one later. But for now, two poems for your entertainment!
Squeezed Orange
Clock greets the hours
with hammer blows,
on a quivering anvil.
Rooster crows
his thick, rich cocoa rico:
morning provides
smells of roasting beans.
Squeezed orange –
glass fills with a golden liquid,
as fierce and sweet
as sunshine on a branch.
A wasted globe,
this orange bath robe,
spent and exhausted,
soon to be transubstantiated.
Breakfast
Yesterday,
I sacrificed a chicken.
Unborn,
it lay within
it’s calcium cocoon,
dormant,
a volcano sleeping
beneath thick snow.
Tap, tap, tap,
the silver spoon
bounced off
the hairless skull:
a sudden crack,
a spurt of orange blood.
Note: This poem is taken from my poetry collection Obsidian’s Edge – From Morning to Night: A Day in Oaxaca
Sun Spots
A painting and a poem dedicated to an only child who, in spite of all his achievements, was never good enough to earn the love of his parents.
Emptiness
The emptiness of air
leaves the birch standing there,
framed by a space
that will fill with chatter
and a flock of birds.
When evening comes,
darkness frames the ash.
It sparkles
with the gold dust of stars,
that swim through space.
Beneath snow’s empty page,
grass and flowers root.
They will grow green tongues
and rage next spring
at the coverlet
keeping them in place.
A touch of warmth.
Tiny flowers start to show.
What language do they speak
as they spread their petals
and let fresh spring words flow?
My head fills with emptiness.
My mouth is a silent space.
I sit and wait for words
to break like sea waves
and create, who knows what,
when they fill that empty place
within my heart and head.
In Place of Grief
A double meaning of course / wrth gwrs. (a) to be in a place of grief and (b) to do something in place of grief i.e. instead of grief. Take your pick. One of my close friends immediately called it Chains. I replied – Ray Charles – “Take these chains from my heart and set me free.” Sometimes, with a great effort, we can do that ourselves. But, if the hole we have dug for ourselves, or that has been dug for us, is too deep, then we may need help.
Creativity is always a help. Painting and poetry, for me. And sometimes the hand of friendship, reaching out from the anonymity of hyperspace – the space beyond the space in which I live and with which I hold my Bakhtinian Dialog what he calls my chronotopos – my dialog with my time and place. Alas, sometimes it is a monolog – and then, when I get not reply, either from time nor from place, I feel an existential grief.
Door
A door slammed shut
in my heart.
That closed door
left me outside,
shivering in the cold.
Now I no longer know
who or what I am.
The shadow of nothingness
wraps its black shroud
around my shoulders.
Dark night of the heart,
and me alone,
walking an unlit road
with no end in sight.
(a) The shadow of nothingness is Meister Eickhard’s Umbra Nihili. A reference to the medieval philosopher.
(b) The dark night of the heart is a reference to St. John of the Cross’s dark night of the soul, part of the Via Purgativa, the mysterious road walked by the Mystics.
Ice Flow
Free fall, then scree on the road
to Wolastoq. with the fresh air
speaking to the rock face
in a long-forgotten tongue,
broken words metamorphosing
into fragmented scree at rock-foot.
Just for a moment we glimpse
the ancient water in the stone,
catch the flow of winter words.
The January sun, low in our eyes,
heavenly glory glancing off rock
to give earthly joy, golden beams
highlight damp, glistening slate.
Afternoon frost, water and rock,
polished into ice-maiden tears
that dance their sparkling way
and are held for a moment
in a vision that will last forever.
Comment:
Such beauty in silent things, ice, rock, sky. But learn to listen and perhaps you will hear them talking, one to the other. One day, you too may share their words of wisdom.
rogermoorepoet 