leap day

yesterday
was the rarest day,
holding expectation and shaking
glory flakes
down
down

and i watched them as if for the first time, wonder-filled as they tipped branches and slowly transformed dead brown grass to white
white
white.

from inside i watched.
this day happens only once
every four years:
wonder.

the evening was mine.
i moved slowly.
i thought simple thoughts while stirring the pots.
my soul doth magnify.
blessed be He.
for You are with me.

dish soap bubbles collected in the sink.
my hands were clean.
hot peppermint brew warmed me.
it was my evening.

just me,
alone,
in my kitchen.

...the dove descending

...because sometimes, often, phrases ricochet through my mind, and sometimes, often, i want to hold them, soaking in them, turning them over until the flash brilliant light and i am transformed. t. s. eliot's 'the four quartets' remains one of my favourite poetic works. here are some line, from 'little gidding.' ponder, dwell, listen...

"... and what you thought you came for
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
If at all. Either you had no purpose
Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
And is altered in fulfillment.
...
If you came this way,
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
At any time or at any season,
It would always be the same: you would have to put off
Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiousity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying."

Summer Sleeps

I chased sunset today. But I was late - or, rather, it keeps starting its flight earlier. So I only caught its footprints fading across the sky.

Over two hours later, I got home. While I was gone, sitting on a bench under pink cloud-fingers, this happened:

Summer has chosen rest,

and not even Autumn in all her splendour

can persuade him to linger.

He is too weary now

to dance,

to stay up late,

to start adventures -

even to make love.

Autumn touches him,

and he looks up, warming today,

then rolls back down to sleep.

On the day she can no longer awaken him,

Autumn will clothe herself

in fire

for her lonely dance,

then drop her robes,

let the wind carry them away,

lay herself down next to Summer,

and cry herself to sleep.

A Poem From A Master

'Hurrahing in Harvest'
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks rise
Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour
Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier
Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies?

I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,
Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour;
And eyes, heart, what looks, what lips yet gave you a
Rapturous love's greeting of realer, of rounder replies?

And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder
Majestic--as a stallion stalwart, very violet-sweet!--
These things, these things were here and but the beholder
Wanting; which two when they once meet,
The heart rears wings bold and bolder
And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet.

bumblebee

Bumblebee lit
on my finger, antennae
whispering against my flesh.

Six feet landed,
soaking sunshine's warmth
from my bare skin.

Circled once,
did Bumblebee, circled twice,
and rested for full minutes

then circled more,
as I lowered my tiring arm to
table's edge.

'Please,' I prayed, 'please
may he leave without stinging me,
but he doesn't need to rush.'

In the heat, all things
move ponderously, even tiny
yellow-and-black bee hairs,

and delicate black
wings. Bumblebee stayed near
my ring for a while,

apparently
satisfied with his new resting-place.
He tickled a bit.

Then, as my watching
gaze drunk in the details of him,
he quadruple-stepped,

and departed
as unexpectedly as he came.
And the hot sun blinded.

May the Fourth, Lynch Park, Beverly, MA

This park, empty,
in the pause.

My town, clouds smoking off
tree tops and spires,
blue, distant,
distantly puzzled.
Evening light,
living sea,
new bright leaves.

Oh, God! I ask:
how can You bear
the beauty
and the pain?

Did You know
that there would be so much
for Your heart
to hold?

Can You keep Yourself
from bursting?
Is the ache too much
for You?

It's too much for me.
If I keep looking,
if my eyes and heart
stay open,
there will be too much.
It will be too heavy.
I cannot bear it.
The pressure is so much
pain
and joy.

I tear a small shred
of red bark
for remembrance.

In this pause,
all is silent
still
waiting
shifting
preparing...

My steps hurry
just enough
to reach shelter
during the deep breath
before downpour.

Beaches, solitary,
welcome the slow waves,
and their thirsty sands
drain
the dropping waters.

What will be shown
different
when the rain is done?

old poems

I was reading through some of my old poetry, and found this. It's not anything spectacular, poem-wise, but the content caught my attention. So, without further ado, a few thoughts from the prayer room:

(3 August 2009)
In Your house are many rooms,
and the walls are only windows
and they all face the sun
and the ceilings open directly
to the starry sky
and the moon dances through
their bright mosaic.
Fountains spring from the corners,
and in those rooms
grow the gardens of God.
The sun always shines,
the stars always watch
and they grow and grow.
Each ripe fruit is picked
and served to the Master,
and He is always
well-pleased.

(10 August 2009)
I caught a glimpse of Your glory,
and like the prince in the story,
smitten in an instant,
the course of his life thereafter
directed only
and always
to winning the princess,
so will the rest of my life
be a pursuit of You,
fighting and waiting
for the Father to open the door for me
and welcome me in
to Your chamber.

Now, a year and a half later, it's odd how so much has changed... yet so much is the same. I feel like I'm on a spiral, and where I am now looks rather familiar. Same things, slightly different perspective. Upward and onward, further up and further in.

Last year, heart.

This year, mind. And body, because they go together. For Lent, capturing thoughts. Following that, sunshine, running around, swimming, playing games, and getting strong.

Last year, music.

This year, add words. And more variety - add voice. Con voce. Maybe add violin.

(I was having a nice reflective moment, then mail merge started jamming the copier. Ach. Breathe in, breathe out, look outside, promise yourself a walk at the beach after work. Better. But still the mood has passed. Over and out, Mr. Spock.)

We shall see. Yes, indeed, we shall see.

National Poetry Month!

It is now April, known to many as the month of poetry. A Boston-area poet, Enzo Silon Surin (http://www.enzosurin.com/), is hosting a One Poem a Day Challenge (see the Facebook page here: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Enzo-Surin-INK/15324072657). The challenge for day one is: a poem in the form of a Recipe.

Here's my little bite (pun intended), written down by the sea in the sunshiny afternoon.

"How to deal with New England's Weather"

Soak in some warm sunshine,

turning occasionally to keep evenly heated.

When clouds start forming,

layer with a sweater and hot beverage.

Ruminate as rain splashes your window;

play mellow music, write in your journal,

read a book.

Once you've reached the end

of a chapter,

check the sky.

By now, the winds will be

chasing the grey away.

Close your book.

Stretch.

Smile.

Toss some spinach, avocado, and

strawberries - for colour.

Mix together a few good friends

and the beach,

then toss in a game of volleyball.

Separately, simmer some poetry,

a bottle of wine, a steak.

Blend for a relaxed evening.

When the mood is tender,

find some stars.

Dust overhead.

Enjoy!

Slow breathing sea

At Flat Rock Point, Rockport, March 1st. Draft.

Pewter platter sea,
swelling mounded silver at a shore
ringed with lace -
finest white
that glows in fading day.

Down orange rocks I climb,
perch where leveled eye
beholds the line
where sky and water
touch
in contrasting blues -
heaven brighter and ocean darker hued.

Water swishes hem against
the shore
or bellows deep where run
against sharp rocks,
as she tries to gain a foothold
on the land.

I turn my back
before night shadows the crevasses,
leaving my sea
still locked between
sky and earth.

Italian Reflection

The following was presented at Lynn: City Unplugged Coffeehouse & Open Mic on 11 February 2011.

I expected to find beauty in Italy, and I did.

I did not expect to find love.

If I ever scoff at love at first sight, ask me this:

do you remember Monday, the 10th of January, 2011?

A strange thing happened to me that day.

Somewhere between Roma Termini and the Church of St. Ignatius, my heart got caught in the tangled streets of Roma.

Its shadow is still there.

I, like Peter Pan with his soap, cannot get that shadow to stick with me, and its absence catches me unexpectedly when I turn in the sunlight.

Me feet, surprised, slip on the ice, and I catch myself, barely, holding my breath while my heart adjusts.

In the early morning,

Italy's folded arms

embraced thick wet blankets.

Before the light stretched down,

her blankets were dark.

She kept secrets in those dim valleys.

In Roma, the facades slipped, and I glimpsed Italy's heart.

An old woman, balancing a big basket on her head, called inside for someone to let her in.

Two businessmen, clad in black coats and striped scarves, spoke quickly but walked slowly.

A line of chattering school-children held hands as their teachers let them to the Pantheon for a field-trip.

Two grey-garbed Dominicans, one tall, one short, strode through traffic to Santa Maria Maggiore.

A white gull perched in the light touching the roof-edge.

Potted geraniums brightened a windowsill.

Laundry dried strung above an alley.

A cat slunk over a railing.

Sunlight caught fountains, obelisks, stone church-fronts.

Dim interiors revealed paintings by men now legendary; statues of angels, saints, prophets, and popes; floor mosaics with classical themes; and clouds of incense floating before crucifixes.

By the River Tiber I sat down and... listened.

I only stood again because the white egret flew over to Trastevera.

Following, I felt my heart pound.

Those narrow cobbled streets, those red, orange, yellow, brown, vine-decorated walls were made by my love.

They echoed his voice to me.

A string symphony soared from an open upstairs window, and for a moment, I could not move.

The city sang to me, played for me, but did no more.

We found an old, old church, my friend and I. No sign announced its name. Its wooden doors were locked. The yard, unmown and unweeded, was strewn by pieces of glass from its broken windows. Its brick front crumbled, worn by weather, vines, and time. Tucked away in Trastevera, this church showed me more of Roma's heart than Santa Maria Sopra Minerva did.

My love deepened.

From Piazzale Guiseppe Garibaldi, all Roma lay before me, from St. Peter's to the Coliseum, and a part of me never left that wall, is still sitting there, forming traceries from ruin to river to basilica to palace...

I weave a tapestry of thought and prayer over my city.

I stood before a fountain,

dipped my fingers in the Trevi, clenched them, and whispered my promise.

In the rush of the water, I caught no reply.

Roma's sound is, underneath, only a waiting silence.

What reply can be given to a promise? - It is only words.

I fell in love, I spoke my love, but my love came not to me.

But I know where he is, and he knows I say I love him.

When I return,

for return I shall,

when I dwell in Roma's seven hills, learn Roma's heart rhythm, get to know Roma's faults, longings, wounds, joys - I will still be in love - more in love - and then, having seen my love is true, my lover will finally show his face.

Haiku from the prayer room (& Christmas)

Winking gold lights watch

blue dusk fill, fall and dimly

cover drifted snow.

Minor, picardy

third and humble thyself in

the sight of the Lord.

Jazz harp and bowl

seventh for funk prayer songs

improv is worship

Peace like a river

Joy like a fountain, Love like

oceans in my soul!

I spend the snowed-in weekend in a good place. Good food, good people, good fun and laughs. Perhaps too much sugar - but the homemade toffee was delicious, and I'd never tried Turkish delight before. (P.S. which is good, but not good enough to warrant Edmund's betrayal!)

Christmas day saw numerous guests - I believe there were twelve in all, including the three little kids running around. Fondue, a beautiful fruit plate, and other hors d'oeuvres and wine filled the time before dinner. Dinner - epic. Two roasts: lamb AND beef, both incredible, both tender and tasty. Also mashed potatoes, mashed yams, horseradish (for the lamb), greens & pear salad, pineapple, avocado on the side. And I'm probably forgetting something. It was SO good, and perfectly healthy and safe! For dessert we had the homemade toffee, and Cassi's special chocolate-frosted chocolate quinoa cake. And rhubarb wine.

We laughed so much all day. During dinner, one guest, Christ, got it into his head that we all needed hats. I was sitting between him and Renee, and they both had hats, so he found some purple tissue paper and red ribbon, and made a hat for me. Apparently, it looked like bunny ears. Then he made a red hat for Rebecca out of a napkin, and an orange-and-gold tissue paper hat - nicknamed the "glory" hat - for Jonathan. Then everyone else got hats from Renee's collection. And we wore these random hats the rest of the evening. Strange folk? Fun folk. My kind.

And then, because of the blizzard warning the next day, Christ and I got trapped an extra day in Georgetown. Which meant even more merriment. The kids had wanted a fire on Christmas, so we built one on Sunday instead. As the snow began, Jonathan and Gabe built a fire. Once it got going, the rest of us (minus the two sleeping girls) trooped out to join them. A couple cigars were lit, and a bottle of port and some glasses brought out, and Christ's iPhone provided carol lyrics. Fire and snow and drink and song. We stayed out until the wind picked up and the light died down: welcome blizzard! We laugh in your face!

Snow turns all things beautiful.

Now I am back home - in my home for less than a week more. I must begin packing. There are many things I must do. But I had a wonderful, emotionally restful weekend. Physically restful? Not so much, since the little one claimed me as her care-taker, and I carried her around most of the weekend. Kids are energy-draining. But snow and laughter and fire are energy-giving. As is good food. I am thankful that my first Christmas away from family was that wonderful and fun.

I move soon. Life changes. What is next? I just don't know. But I'm sure it will be good.

Geo.town -Caches Pt2

(lying in my bed at 11.55pm, this took form)

I said I would sing

only what I knew - 

then found I could not sing,

for I knew

nothing.

Except.

That I am hungry.

And hunger makes

a dismal song.

Perhaps once hunger is fully known,

and past,

I shall begin to know

something else,

and be able to

sing.

But until then,

I will open my mouth

silently,

waiting to be filled.

another blast from the past

This is another poem from August. Or rather, a thought-poem. It's really more of a thought than a poem, but regardless of what it is, here it is.

Freedom is not emptiness
or not-knowing or non-being.

If you are thirsty, and have
nothing
to drink,
that is not freedom.

But when I have a full cup,
and I share it with you,
we both
are free
while the sharing lasts.

So if I give you me, and
You
give me You,
we are both free
as long as we both are.

A Poem About Bees

(From August 5th. First, a bit about bees. Then, a snippet regarding infinity and the universe.)


Maybe
one bee dances differently than the others
and shifts
their monochromatic expression into polyphony
Perhaps
their pattern, disrupted, fuses inward
until,
too tightly wound the movement catches and
explodes
into a cacophonic impression of reality
But this
electric seeming simply confuses the idea -
mixes
caustic sound with heavy echolalic spaces -
till full,
the ceilings shatter, and disillusioned, the bees die.



If you count high enough,
the universe will explode.
The stars can't hold the numbers
past what they share light with.
Finitude won't contain
more than itself:
It will strain, stretch, and eventually
burst into nothingness.

'nother poetic bit

This is from a trip to the park a couple weeks ago. It's still definitely a draft. But better than the others from that day. It has no title yet.

In this turgid summer
birds chirping and slow blue waters
cover over a multitude of sins.
The blue sky bears thunder and rain
between its fingers;
grassy lawns conceal biters and scratchers
and garbage from a desolated picnic;
tanned skin and hard muscles betray
taut circumstances
with a twitch or excessive attention
to detail.
This calm swelters
and under the heat
we putrify.
(But nobody seems to notice
because we all, guilty, fear
to be found.)

from this afternoon

Now is the time
for the lines to grow clear.
Flames are licking
at the feet of all people,
and we walk on razors,
but the gospel of peace
dulls their edges,
damps their heat,
and the lovers of Christ
walk unscorched,
unbled.

today - haiku(s)

falling snow covered
potential independence
with housebound stillness


i've done this before -
baked this bread, read this same book -
but it's not the same


wait for it... and keep
waiting... until either shades
fall down or eyes open


i sometimes wonder
whether i would be better
understood by loons


if i could write a
poem that embodied you, i'd
keep it my secret

Concerning Poetry

I would like to hear James Joyce and Aristotle discuss their views of aesthetics, beauty, art, and poetry. Reading their A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (ch.V, esp.) and Poetics lead me to believe that would be one interesting discussion. Not only do they have different opinions; they have very different ways of going about getting to those opinions. I wish they weren't both dead! Oh, and, pretending this dialogue were possible, let's add T.S. Eliot and Wordsworth to the mix. Just imagine the fireworks!

And I would facilitate, take copious notes, then, after they all returned to the underworld, formulate all their theories into one universal theory - the M theory of poetics.

O, to hear poets
argue as if defining
their art could be done.
To listen to men
of great intelligence claim
the others were fools.
And to laugh under
my breath, since I know something
they haven't learned yet.

from my journal, 29 July, after visiting the Magnolia Cliffs

I wish to create, to write a poem, or something somehow worthwhile. I want to dive into a cool ocean, and walk along the bottom, staring up at the wave-play above my head, spreading my arms wide to feel as much water as I can, hair drifting with the current. I want to lay in the sun, alone on a wide rock, with nothing but sky, sea, hills and trees to see anywhere, and nothing but birds, squirrels, or bugs to keep me company. I want to run with the wind, so fast that the wind feels like still air, until my legs quiver and my lungs burn, and continue until I collapse on grass and stare at the clouds shifting through the sky. I want to fly through the air, swooping and calling like a white-winged bird, floating on thermal currents, diving and pulling up, climbing until my wings melt, and I fall to join Icarus in the cool wetness.

I perch, precarious, on the edge of the sea,
rocks behind and below,
blinding blue stretching before.

I stare, deep into the froth and turmoil
as two waves are entwined
one charging in, the other retreating.

The skin on my feet is not too cold
to feel the twists in the water
as it buries them, and the rock, hiding

the last shred of my connection to land.
And I am gone. The rocks are gone.
I shoot straight up, a rocket to a cloud,

a sudden explosion, a startled flock of birds,
a shimmering translucent body
twisting with sudden newfound joy and energy.

My bright wings burst forth - why have
they been hiding? - and the wind
rushes by, carrying me swiftly away

from the land, the ocean-covered rock,
from the unambiguous division
of earth and sea, body and spirit,

life and death. Further and further
my wings take me. And
even though my ghostlike, now useless feet,

seem to remember the passion of
sand in my toes, solid bedrock,
knowledge and human connections,

the movement of cool air around my skin,
the ecstasy of flight, of freedom,
is stronger, and my face remains towards the horizon.

My Day in Haiku

blossoms smell like fish:
faint alone, but together
the sea comes to land.

drizzle turns to haze
which burns and fades into blue
humid spring sunshine.

new leaves patterning
green across blue; downy gold
goslings ignore us.

red-stained watered eyes
uncertainty if death comes
or life stays tonight.

what may one say or
do? the pain remains inside
whether shared or not.

O God, my God, why?
Hast thou forsaken others?
I care not of me.

fires blaze as they go
words smash through frosted windows:
the shadow of death.