Lady Poet

 

Who changed you, water lily, who betrayed

and left your leaves to sway half-drownëd here?

Your moon-dazed face is pale, night-sick, afraid.

Water lily so wounded, so austere.

You of many stems but a single face--

no voice at all except poems water-writ.

Who muddied the stars of your secret place,

and forced such a sorrowful alphabet?

________

A rispetto poem for What's Going On?--"The Dark" 

Music: the late Marianne Faithful Sad Lisa

Word Garden Word List--Across the River and into the Trees

 Hello my little Venetians, and pardon me for being a little bit early in getting this posted. In the breakneck pandemonium that is (not) my daily life, I got it twisted and thought it was Sunday when it was only Saturday. Oopsy. No matter! Our source this week is a novel that I just finished yesterday, Across the River and into the Trees  by Ernest Hemingway. Those who know me know that I love Papa, both the author and my own papa, who loved Hemingway and passed that on to me. I love his concise style. 

I have already read up most of his more celebrated works, and so I picked this one to read. Published in 1950 when Hemingway was past his glory days and writing narrators who were basically himself, I was disappointed in this one. Set in Venice, it's about the love affair of a 50-year-old colonel and a 19-year-old young woman. If that weren't cringe enough, he calls her "Daughter" and they spend most of their time with him telling her war stories and her being fascinated. And of course, the colonel drinks any time he is awake and possibly in his sleep as well. He is dying and that lends a bittersweet air to the tale, but that wasn't enough to make it believable or moving, in my view. I will say that, despite his talents having rusted, he is still Hemingway, and his writing, despite uncharacteristic lapses, is still wonderful in places. I don't recommend this book, but it's fine as a source for our List, and I am glad to have read it, even though I didn't enjoy the reading of it that much, if that makes sense. (There is also a beginning and ending section about a duck hunt, in which the narrator uses a hen tied to a string so that she will call and lure the ducks overhead to come in and be shot. All Renata, the love interest in this book, ever does is adore her older lover, and his destruction is entirely self-inflicted, but it does not surprise me that Hemingway at his worst would use this device.)

What we do here is to use at least 3 of the 20 words provided in a new, original poem of our own. Then simply link up, visit others, and visit Venice, it's a wonderful place from all I hear. This prompt stays active through next Saturday.

And now, your List:

ages

ceiling

dreams

drink

ducks

forget

fruit

handsome

ice

lovely

messiness

pine

rough

sleepy

stones

telescope

uniform

Venice

water

wind

Oasis

 

Well ducks, it was the place to gather in those days.

There were ceiling fans that made one think 

that Baron Von Richtofen might fly in at any moment. 

I wondered whether a man wearing coveralls had to climb

 up on a ladder each morning

to heave the blades into motion.

They served a concoction of fruit, gin, crushed ice,

the low notes from Hernando's Hideaway, and who knew

what else. It tasted like children's party punch

but made our high perches start to  pitch

on the rough seas beneath our jelly legs.

Down some white stone stairs, there was a blue pond

someone had stocked with mallards, as green and gold

as my jewelry. They were free to fly

but could never leave--the desert

would have turned them to cardboard.

We slept with scorpion nets. One night I dreamt

that a handsome man in a uniform of water lay with me,

told me my hair was good rope from India, and

that I had been a snake charmer

in a previous life. He kissed me and it stung.

Ah, love, there you are looking at me through your new

telescope, your young face behind the lens like an egg.

I gave up gin, and traveling, and most other things long ago.

Now I'm talking to you with my bird beak,

free to choose but forbidden to leave

except via packing box, to be sent by air mail over the dunes

to the oasis bar, c/o my younger self, cash on delivery, payable

in florins, code phrase "wing walker." The Baron will be there waiting.

_____________

for Word Garden Word List--Across the River and into the Trees

Music: Hernando's Hideaway

Iris Indigo

 

Iris Indigo used to sing on shore and shipboard

with the voice given her by some broken, incandescent god

now and in the hour of her death, amen. 

Loved by the moneyed and shanghaied, 

tuxedoed and tommyrotters,

Iris Indigo

indiglorious

into everything,

indi gone. 

_______

for dverse quadrille monday "indigo"

Music: Melody Gardot La Llorona

February Light

 

Two months from the lamplit darkness that was December,

wrapped in a delicious affair with books, and poetry,

when I lamented the stubborn snow's refusal, once again, to visit,

February has arrived, changing the game, wanting everything its way.

This month has been as cold and severe as the lover who leaves

in the morning, after a thousand others, transfigured behind a screen

of secrets and silence. New snow is peaceful, people say, but no one

volunteers to go out and live in it, lie down in it, die in it.

Sometimes one wakes up confused, as if animated from inside

a capsule, with no history, no map, no landmarks. What then?

Maybe clarity comes with the next breath--or, everything remains

foreign, multiplying itself obscenely, crowded to bursting with horrors.

Sun on snow has the brightness of surgical lights to a person tied

down and drugged. The sun is the optometrist's penlight aimed

at an infected eye hardly able to bear it. It is February and the new way,

a cold intensity that can't be stopped, ravenous, stronger every day.

___________________

for What's Going On? --Light.

Music: Tears For Fears Pale Shelter

Mongrel Angel

 

A mongrel angel in the dark

who wakes the dogs who start to bark

beneath the yellow windows in the rain

she knows the words and hums the tune

for lonely rabbits on the moon

who wear their pestles on a silver chain

A mongrel angel high at noon

comes uninvited to the room

where holy flunkies serve the business crowd

she knows where all the blossoms bloom

in graveyards where they dust their broom

and common kind is simply not allowed

And the mongrel angel lives halfway from Heaven on her own

like a fish out of the water or a turtle on a stone

A mongrel angel's setting sun

is just like any other one

but dialect of night's a special rhyme

that only dogs and she can hear

a melody of atmosphere

that leaves her breathless every single time

And the mongrel angel lives halfway from Heaven on her own

like a fish out of the water or a turtle on a stone

_____________

for Word Garden Word List--Cat's Cradle

Word Garden Word List--Cat's Cradle

 

Hello my little Bokononists! You know, when I was in my 20's, I read a ton of Kurt Vonnegut's books. I loved God Bless You Mr. Rosewater, Slaughterhouse-5, Slapstick and Breakfast of Champions. I also liked Wampeters, Foma, & Granfaloons  and Welcome to the Monkey House. Twenty years later, I read Bluebeard   but cannot now recall a single thing about it. I may have read others; I was not yet keeping my book journal when I read all but that last one. I read so many Vonnegut and Kerouac books back in the day that I'm no longer sure exactly which ones except the favorites. 

So anyway, I decided to see whether I still like my old author pal. I did not think that I had read Cat's Cradle, so I got a copy and ripped through it last week. I am still not sure if I had read it before, but I enjoyed it. It concerns a scientist whose three children own a chip of a substance called ice-9, which can turn whole oceans--and people--to solid ice on contact. Not good for living things, clearly. These three adult children, plus the writer/narrator, all end up on a tiny island called San Lorenzo, where everyone follows a religion called Bokonon even though it is prohibited. (Oh, and its founder freely admits that everything about it is lies.) It's classic Vonnegut. So, that is our source this week!

What we do here is to use at least 3 of the 20 words provided in a new, original poem of our own. Then simply link up, visit others, and whatever you do, don't touch the ice-9! This prompt remains active through next Saturday.

And now, your List!

absurdity

angel

blossoms

blueprint

bubble

clownishness

college

dialect

hook

imagine

letter

models

mongrel

nervous

records

rockets

tombstone

turtles

unless

wicked

Tiger

 

there is a tiger

who travels through each of my arms.

One is filled with jacaranda

with the moon asleep in its branches.

the other is a dusty courtyard in afternoon

with a fountain 

and a small child who walks its low wall.

your little balcony

is where the tiger likes to go.

there is a purple reflection in the fountain--

the child 

peels an orange to find the moon at its center,

and me in your arms

near the jacaranda branches

where everything is harmonious

and fragrant.

Saint Agnes On The Bus

 

On a bus in the city

on a slush-spattered morning

St. Agnes rode quiet to her grave.

Her sister was praying

her ear buds were playing

a song that was slow, sad, and brave.

The driver was sleeping

on a cushion of roses

and the wheel was a garland of sand

St. Agnes was pure

as few ever can be

mending wounds with a gold rubber band.

On the streets there were dogs

and they spoke of a healing

that cures every creature entire

St. Agnes is holy

and her sister is humbled

by the cost such devotion requires.

The bus turned to ashes

and the souls of the riders

had to carry all the things they must learn

St. Agnes beheaded

her sister lamented

that glory, to be sweet, must be stern.

_____________

Snow Day

 

Bosco 2003-2014

Zacky, my spring-heeled dog, goes bouncing into the middle

of the flyers around the bird feeder--

his pure simple joy as he watches them rise.

his tongue hanging out, his eyes alight, defies the winter.

We have had snow, then thaw, then rain, then refreeze.

The world here is icebound.

The rain pooled almost to the doorstep, but the

still frozen ground could not accept it and iced over again.

The rinks have endured for two weeks now.

My dog comes to the door, exhilarated, certain

that his mama will be there to let him in for a cookie and a nap.

I am his open door, his open heart, his centering sun.

Someone I know has just lost her dog--

she is crying. I am crying for them.

Two to four more inches is expected here shortly,

while winter plays the immortal.

As I hold my smiling pal, I think of my old dogs,

Sundance and Bosco, and how much I miss them.

They passed.

Winter will pass.

I too will pass, along with all my stuff and memories.

Today I will sit stroking Zacky and watching out the window

as the snow falls and falls. 

Winter will have its day but will fade, as will 

presidents and peacocks,

blue jays and babies,

a constant falling, 

with all of us aboard for the ride.

(Detroit Michigan, 2/13/25)

_____________

Written for What's Going On? "Landscapes."

Music: Dave Grusin The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter theme

Dear Katie

 

Dear Katie,

                  please pardon the confusion--

mine,

yours,

the weather's.

Today in group they wanted us to talk about

someone who really loves us.

I started to laugh

                            like slipping on ice

I couldn't wave myself fast enough

                            to save a fall

and the laughing became an ugly cry.

They like us to do things with our hands here

so I made

                a love potion for you.

Yeah, too late. like checking a smoking oven.

But,

       I can still portion by intuition

like how much to kiss you in the morning.

I used

a pinch of rust from a love lock

the memory of five black tulips

and 1 tsp essence of caramel fudge ice cream--

       Jeff Buckley ballads to taste

        baked at 350 until the moon turns silver like your poetry.

Gosh Katie,

                   they took away my books,

said I needed to engage with others.

I went back to group today and said, whoa, back up--

let's do that thing

                              from yesterday.

I pulled my shit together this time, not like before,

and I said,

                Katie mon amour

                 Katie je t'aime je t'aime, je t'aime.

This one bitch goes, you're not French,

you're not even Canadian you fucking freak

But she never stumbled drunk up the stairs with you,

poetry ringing in our ears and the summer night on our skin.

More to be pitied than scorned,

                                                    I can hear you say.

Anyway,

              love ya girl

Katie mon amour,

              Our Lady of Tulips and the Silver Moon.

________________

for Dverse Poetics, "From Your Valentine" hosted by Sanaa.

Music: Chantel Chamberland-- Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

Word Garden Word List--Sula

 

Hello my little wanderers! This week's Word List is taken from a marvelous novel I recently read entitled Sula  by Toni Morrison. She is also the author of Beloved, The Bluest Eye, Tar Baby, and many more.

Sula  centers on a pair of childhood friends; Nel, who grows up along the expected lines, marrying, having children, not making waves, and Sula, who is a wild spirit who does exactly as she pleases, and then lives with the consequences, as do many others in her wake. I loved this book. It moved me and I find myself still thinking about all the characters. 

What we do here is to use at least 3 of the 20 words provided in a new, original poem of our own. Then simply link up, visit others, and then read some Morrison! This prompt remains active all week. 

And now, your List:

bird

bizarre

cook

gossip

grace

grave

joke

kissed

mask

paints

pony

quilts

robins

screen

soap

songs

story

touched

true

voice

Travel Stories For Girls

 

Someone messed with my story when I was still young,

trying to bend it like a bonsai tree

and so I wrapped it in paper and hid it away

in the throat of a bird, clandestinely. 

I was obliged to call my assaulter "mother"

and expected to pretend devotion.

Her mask was on her face so long

that her true face had become the illusion.

Grown, I went where the robins gathered

and found the cardinal who carried my loss.

It was in a grave, wrapped with quilts, 

but had marked its place with two twigs crossed.

I put it back in my body and felt its ice,

then its beat and its fine red heat.

There is nothing I love more than the thing

I smuggled past the killer-- the best of me.

That is not to say that all survived--

those who say they love are heard as fakes,

assassins or fools; give this hungry woman jewels

and see what a pretty figure my turned back makes.

______________

for Word Garden Word List--Sula 

Music: Damien Jurado Orphans in the Key of E

Freezing Rain On A February Evening

inside, the pages, outside, the ice

outside, the night, here sweet delight

inside the tale, outside rages

a frozen fall of rattling white

playing out on facing stages

outside, the ice, inside, the pages.

_______

a sparrowlet

with a nod to William Blake's

Auguries of Innocence

for Dverse MTB

hosted by Laura Bloomsbury

Music: The Doors

End of the Night

 

Lady Poet

 

Writing poetry is a fine thing,

to laze in one's garden wearing a sun hat

as a lady may do of a June afternoon.

Poetry is the Boston Marriage of the arts--

termed by some a higher devotion

and by others a harmless quirk.

The lady poet must avoid unpleasantness

and lift her literary skirts

above the puddle in the road.

Upon discovery of my desire to be a lady poet,

my father entombed me with his own manuscripts

mummified by papier-mache and shellac.

My mother tried to can me with her tomatoes

to debut at some later date

in a more malleable and acceptable guise.

Writing poetry is a fine thing,

to jump in the blood and guts wearing suspenders

and getting arrested after midnight.

Drunk on gin, turns of phrase, and love of fire

to dwell in the house of the falling crossbeams

for seven years give or take

And then to sleep with men, sleep with women,

sleep with marvels and nightmares

such as no one ever speaks of, and then to scream it.

After all of this, it will be a fine thing

to laze in the garden wearing my scars and hip-hoorahs

as a lady may do of an October afternoon

My father dead in his grave, my mother careful in hers,

and my many selves rolling over in theirs,

all for this higher devotion, this quaint quirk, this thing that I live for.

______________

For Dverse Poetics: Reimagining the Familiar hosted by Dora

and What's Going On--"Morn of Restoration" hosted by Mary

Music: Chantel Chamberland Temptation (written by Tom Waits)

Imagine My Surprise

 

Imagine my surprise

when I noticed that your body beside me

was a cello

and when you snored,

the sound was the most beautiful thing

I had ever heard.

Hush now,

do not speak

or get up, standing stiffly on your one leg.

There is no ceremonial dance to be done.

Our people have all fluttered

away, a cloud of crows

or treble clefs

dotting the air like ellipsis points.

They seed the sky and make it rain

golden notes

glittering dreams

wild and giddy

like experimental harmonics.

You have my ear, darling.

Speak and be 

the instrument of my glorious undoing.

___________

for Word Garden Word List Chouette

Music: Sunny & the Sunliners Talk To Me

Word Garden Word List--Chouette

 

Hello my little life rafts! I have been drowning lately in a sea of disappointing--dare I say disgusting--books. Did I say a "sea"? It was just two, but allow me my dramatic moment. To begin: horror isn't a genre I read a lot of, and when I do it is almost always either Stephen King or Clay McLeod Chapman, author of the much beloved (by me) "Ghost Eaters." So, imagine my happiness when his new novel "Wake Up and Open Your Eyes" came out and I got my copy! It's about people who watch "Fax" News and turn into demented zombies. Sounds great, right? Well it wasn't. It was just gore, body horror, weird sexual situations, and did I mention body horror? right from page one. I got half way through and DNF'ed it when the family dog met a horrible end. Really, Clay? I'll never read you again. 

Claire Oshetsky. Stay away from me, Claire.

So I wanted to read something lighter and my eye came upon this 2021 novel called "Chouette" by Claire Oshetsky. The dust jacket features a wonderful woodcut of an owl sitting in some foliage. It's about a woman having an owl-baby and the problems that causes. It sounded like a charming little fable or fairy story involving birds--what could go wrong? Lots, as it turned out. This book was just as gory and disturbing--and even had a dog come to a horrible end!--as the one I just threw in the trash. 

This book shelf ain't safe!

Not wanting to DNF two books in a row, I hate-read this one all the way to the bitter end. Most reviews hail it as being some sort of genius statement on motherhood and feminism. My review differed. I saw it as the delusions of a mentally ill woman living in a fantasy world and exercising a destructive obsession regarding her owl-baby, who may or may not have actually been an owl or done any of the violent things the narrator claims. Don't read it, it's awful, a sort of cross between "The Bad Seed" and "Helter Skelter," but I do still like that woodcut. I may read "Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm" next, just to be safe!

What we do here is to use at least 3 of the 20 words provided in a new, original poem of our own. Then simply link up, visit others, and be kind to doggos. This prompt remains active until next Sunday.

And now, your List:

absent

cello

ceremonial

dream

flutter

gaze

giddy

golden

grit

miracle

napping

ominous

owl

shrieking

slippery

speak

stiffly

swoop

wild

yabber-yabber (talking without saying anything.)