Mistral

 

In Spring the madding winds arrive

and leave the winter to its dreams

of fools such as my love and I.

In your eyes Provence does lie--

false Spring is never what it seems

when Mistral sings the lullaby. 

The ring is left to rust and die

by drowning pool or icy stream

while scudding clouds above it fly.

Your wind has temper come alive

to kill the bud or turn the cream

and howl unchecked to Italy.

So comes the Mistral, mad with spring

My love, destroying everything.

_______

for Dverse Meeting the Bar "Wild Wind."

The mistral is a strong, cold, northwesterly wind that blows from southern France into the Gulf of Lion in the northern Mediterranean. It produces sustained winds averaging 31 miles an hour.

It is said that madness occurs particularly often in the Spring. I believe it.

Scrapbook

 

Two parents, tidy as mints on a pillow,

produce three children who float into the world

like bewildered but bright confetti. 

The first lives inside a camera,

clothed in instructions and operating

the mechanism from within.

The second lives in the courtyard,

raised remotely from an upstairs window

by the detached shadow of the first.

The third grows inside a smoker

and can barely see. It is assumed she will be

a servant or a sparrow, but she is a fissure.

The second hates the first

and hides inside the family car,

finally using it to elope with an accident.

The first is made of mirrors,

the second of fists. The third grows

eyes on her palms and holds them up.

The first is successful and becomes a living myth.

The second is successful and has a skin of diamonds.

The third is on fire, shifting in the wind.

This is the story of the farmer's wife

she cut out their hearts with a carving knife

have you ever seen such a sight in your life

as this family, so proper and nice?  

________

for Word Garden Word List--The Silent Patient. 

The Goblin Girl (A Child's Fairy Story)

 

image by Gustaf Teggren

The Goblin Girl is cursed and wanders

over stubbled fields and passes under

the riven bridge that ice has split

and counts herself the cause of it.

Should the Goblin Girl admire the arc

of a lofty bird it misses its mark--

falters and falls like an iron omen

to fall at her feet in evening gloaming.

On thorny brambles she lays her head

with moon for pillow and stone for bed

to dream of peacocks and peahens crying

for the bride whose lily is cut and dying.

Who laid the wicked curse upon her?

Perhaps some coward behind a mask?

Or was it the smug and well-dressed hunter

who cradles his gun and ready flask?

Who burned her image and let the milk curdle

as done to them by an earlier other?

Why, the very one who rocked the cradle--

the Goblin Girl's Janus-faced mother.

________

for Word Garden Word List--Christina Rossetti. The poem is, in style, an homage.

For more about the two-faced god Janus, look HERE. 

Music: Sarah McLachlan "In The Arms Of An Angel"

Wreath of Roses

I used stems to hold them in my hair,
the red of roses balanced there
to fire a fever in my head
a senseless sleeping, loved instead

Of you, a pool of glossy surface,
silent as some deathly circus
where all is mud and lily root--
cold lips to do what kiss can do

When offered with such artful lack
to turn my wreath of roses black.
______

For Karin's "artifice" challenge at Real Toads, which gave me the poem I needed to go with the image for Mag 301. Image by Ed Ross.

Note to my readers: comment moderation is now enabled. 

The Second Garden

In the Second Garden, the poison vine
as thin as a thought, as long as a doubt,
the devil's darling, nocturne saturnine.

The hangman's weaver bird slips in, slips out,
creating lace of loss, brocade of dark,
as thin as a thought, as long as a doubt.

By second moon, burn the bloom, climb the bark;
a slender creeper who kills by embrace,
creating lace of loss, brocade of dark.

Dream by the lily pond, drown in the race;
the high-shown face is mere mask for the root,
a slender climber who kills by embrace.

Here find bloom for the blind, song for the mute;
black-gone fruit is the dark garden's heart.
The high-shown face is mere mask for the root.

The snake's second skin is fine seed to start
in the Second Garden, the poison vine.
Black-gone fruit is the dark garden's heart;
the devil's darling, nocturne saturnine.
______

A Terzanelle for Real Toads form challenge. Curse you, Kerry O'Connor!

Favor

When far from me my love does lie,
she wears a silver ring.
She moves the stars at her command
with every gesturing.

Night--
deceive me not.
Owl--
be thou my second sight.

If, far from me, my love forgets
her simple sterling band,
may darkness spare a coiling kiss
to strike her where she stands.
_____

for Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads: "Fireblossom Goes Old School"

The House Amid The Lupines

Two wolves with but three eyes between them
set each half its teeth in my heart;
having given such rare food to feed them,
it killed me to tear them apart.

The shepherd with spectacles woolen,
was convinced he certainly dreamed them;
while his damned bloody blindness emboldened
two wolves with but three eyes between them.

As Mistress, I sanctioned the pasture
for concealing the Moon and the Stars;
but the Sun, in league with the Master,
set each half its teeth in my heart.

The cook baked her devils some sheep's heads
from her oven she built in the deep den;
then she served herself with their sweetbreads,
having given such rare food to feed them.

My wolfish love with the Master
set hooks through the meat of our hearts;
when our opposite tempers tugged faster,
it killed me to tear them apart.
_______

For Hedgewitch's excellent mini-challenge at Real Toads!

Merciful The Shortening Days

Merciful the shortening days
When leopard hours incline toward black,

Gather my grief in corset and stays
A Plenty against dissembling lack...

Bring tonic of time that forgetting invites,
Let gray go the cat whose claws score the wound;

Just soften my sorrow with poppy-gone nights
When merciful dreams lay me skin-close with you.
_______

for Kerry's challenge at Real Toads.

Ode For A Young Beauty

An ode for you, my swan-necked sylph
grown tall and fine by afternoon--
a gamin grown where asters bloom;
precocious, prideful, pretty elf--

Expediency is your diadem;
your flower's face an asterisk--
the reaper's scythe exposes quick
your thin, deceiving, hollow stem.
_______

A Remedy For Robbery

Remember the guest
Who stole the room
You gave her to stay and be sheltered in?

Beware the door
That opens to nothing--
A void where no guest can stay, again.

At the station, the stealer
Is stopped by her burden--
A room on a chain on the platform, stopped;

The thief is charming,
Policemen pet her,
Debating whether to hold her or not.

She steals the station,
The train and the tracks,
The schedules and benches, the smoke from the stacks.

Shutter the house,
Leave the lack,
Take only your heart and never look back.
_______

Parasol

Down beside the willow water
Came the Reverend Wilson's daughter,
Looking for the one who loves to kiss her perfect face.

Across her shoulder, three times spun,
Her parasol to stop the sun;
White and new and edged with such a pretty ring of lace.

Back-buttoned dresses need a friend,
With eager fingers sweet to lend
A turn, a touch, and anything Miss Wilson might request.

The Reverend sent his man to check,
But all he found upon the deck:
A lace-edged parasol there tilted mistress-less at rest.

He dove into the willow water,
Fearful for the Reverend's daughter,
Who if she lost her breath, it came from quite another cause!

Presently, she came along,
Collected up her parasol,
Then, smiling, spun its lacy edge and walked back to the house.
______



 

A Ballad In Shades Of Red

Am I your best girl?
Let me ask the doves--
But the gamesman's killed them, one by one;
What was he thinking of?

Am I your best girl?
Let me ask the fox--
But the gamesman's set out poisoned meat
To save his hens and cocks.

Blue morning glories climb the post,
Red roses crowd the door--
I keep my head held shameless high,
My dress pooled on the floor.

Am I your best girl?
Let me ask your back--
The gamesman brings you bright gold rings
And birds with broken necks.
_______

On Leaving Pennyfarthing-Sevier's

At Pennyfarthing-Sevier's I learned
To wear the corset and say "yes Ma'am"--
To stay my tongue and bank the fire,
Which, strangely, heightened bound desire.

Will you take my ticket, sir,
And hand me up the stair--
To find my red crushed velvet seat
On the noontime train to her, dear sir,
The westbound train to her.

I've my hat by hat pins held
And my traveling suit cinched nice--
Beneath these layers, two roses rise
As if caressed with ice.

My boots have heels to make me tall,
My sleeves are freshly starched--
My Mistress will accept me wet,
But will not have me parched.

Won't you take my traveling bag
And help me down the stair--
I'm ever the faint and feminine thing
Til I catch sight of her, dear sir,
I break and run for her.

_________

a second installment for Kerry's steampunk challenge.

 

Ungrateful

My mother used to say
"You'll fall and break your neck,"
with uncharacteristic hope in her voice
like gilt edging on a pendant.

It made me want to fall and break my neck
just to please her.

It made me want to hold on vicious hard
just to vex her,
to get down and dance like a Hottentot
around a pot of missionary stew.

So, last night I was up on a ladder hanging a picture;
I had little nails in my mouth,
a big old honking hammer in my hand,
and my foot on a banana peel.

Yep.
Fell and broke my neck.
Who's gonna feed my dog?

It was off to the nursing home for me.
where I couldn't feel my ass or my broken bones.

Cantcha hear me knocking, I'd sing/scream

from behind the edges of my teeth

like a tornado in a jar.

I wanted to ask all the nurses personal questions.
I wanted to wheel down the hall like the runaway Number Nine,
Making train noises and peeing in a bag.

These beautiful dreams that ne'er can be,
Roses forever left unbloomed;
How melancholy the dubious hour
When Desire's crimson comes to ruin...

Ah, what shit!
Somebody else will get my apartment,
After I circumvented the waiting list
By finding out who I had to kiss.

My mother used to say,
"You'll break your neck,"
And the bitch was right.

I return to my body in an access of spite,
With my stupid neck at ninety degrees
and I'm back! Just like that.
Happy Mother's Day, Frosty,
from your darling young, your serpent's tongue

falling hell-for-breakfast beyond your grasp.

_________

 

 

Crow Against The Moon

Gypsy I was born,
And Gypsy I have always been;
Mama scrubbed the Gypsy out--
I sinned her back again.

Six claws a cat's paw,
And round the wagon wheel;
Oranges all in sections fall
When knife strips off the peel.

Red apple at your lips,
A seed lies at its core;
Sweet the fine forbidden kiss,
And sweet the needing more.

Meet me by the witch's pond,
November's coming soon;
My blood is up, my dress is gone,
A crow against the moon.

Stolen hens have seven ribs,
Now pull those ribs apart;
Fire the hen upon a spit,
How succulent the heart.
_____

I Was Not The One

I was not the one who poured the night and all its stars
Into the cold curve of evening's cup.
I was not the stupid virgin
Working up her nerve.
I was not the one who fetched or served.

I was not the one who brought the bile or the blade
And not the one who baked a loaf of death.
I was not the cook
Who wrung the rooster's neck.
I was not the portion nor the plate.

In my gaze find the small gloved hand;
In my words sleeps the fox.
In my veins find the sweetness that killed
The bantam in the laying hen's box.

I was not the one who sent the master down the mad-path
Or the one who set him swinging from a tree--
But the one who slipped her son
Past the sere red eye of dawn,
In the silent early morning, that was me.
________

for Real Toads OLM

The Finches

If the finches should call you
On the land line
In the hall
Of the old house,

There is no need to set aside your book
Or to trouble yourself at all--
It is only a draft
Through a window
Where an empty vase still sits.

It is only the gone summer,
Only the things that could never be;
It is only these.
It is only me.

And if there is a nest
On the pole,
Above the transformer,
Where the snow clouds skulk and glower...

There is an egg,
And in the egg, a memory that does not change,
But is, instead,
As static as a china dish.
Likewise, there is a lace-edged wound,

And within the wound,
An hour,
And within that hour,
The high-grown fields,
Your bare arms with their gooseflesh skin,

And one secreted, hoarded darling--
Palmed in my hand to kiss.

If the finches should call you
Before rot
And ice
Destroy...

It is only me, up on the wire,
Sealed and
Cauterized
With my voice.

I remain as mad
As mad has always been--
A balance pole
Of oriole
And owl bones

Long and thin.
Find the dazed bird on your porch boards,
Dashed against your doorway, dying;
Uncurl my fingers,
Lean close, and laugh,

And love me
One last time.
_______

Picture by Eugenio Recuenco, sent to me by Kerry O'Connor, my fellow Toad. It was originally part of her challenge to me to write to the pictures of Recuenco, which I did, but not to this one, until now.

This is for dverse OLN, because my bestie, Hedgewitch, is hosting.