Great Mystery

 

After dancing with him in the forest

one recalls few details – only the speed

of reckless feet, the rush of wind

through flowing hair, the giddying swirl

inside firm arms holding safe, and 

the after-taste of ecstasy. (He has

many names, the Horned God.)

Written for Quadrille 249 at dVerse. (44 words not including title, which on this occasion must include some form of the word 'horn'.)

Unable Not to Keep Mourning Her Death

(‘Tells with silence the last light breaking’)

Tells –    

utters / informs / relates … and ah, 

what Katherine did was relate

with –    

alongside, in the company of … she was one 

who was never away from, always with

silence –    

absence of noise, deep quiet … she could be 

noisy, loud with laughter, yet in her presence

I found deep peace; we could be quiet together,

needing no words (though, both, workers in words)

the –    

definitive … to define her would take many words

or none; one could write pages of rapturous description,

which would have to include somewhere her laughter, 

her huge capacity for joy – yet wholly fail to capture her

last –    

at last, the end, finality … but there is nothing final about

this long friendship, sisterhood, true understanding, ever

light –    

shining, radiant, illumination, clarity, the light of knowledge 

… she shed light on the hidden; also, alight, lit up our lives

breaking –    

coming apart, fracturing, dividing into pieces … separating 

into past and future, self and other, here and gone, alive / dead

Inspired by a prompt from Laura Bloomsbury, for dVerse: Taking a Fine Line Down.

A word acrostic focusing on definitions of the words chosen. The line, 'tells with silence the last light breaking' is from Dylan Thomas's A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London. (To get the formatting to work on the blog page, I needed to put the words above each verse instead of to the left – which perhaps differentiates it from an acrostic, but I think it works as a poem.)

Today the Unexpected

Today it is the once a fortnight when my cleaner comes

and I find myself telling him who I am: who I once was and still am,

although yesterday I wished he wouldn’t get here quite so early.

As I write, I decide after all not to request a change of time / person.

I find myself telling him I’m a performance poet, a healer, a witch.

When I was younger I didn’t tell anyone those things; I was afraid.

As I write, I decide not to request a change of time or person.

(I couldn’t have known this rapport would suddenly flourish.)

When I was younger, I didn’t tell anyone such things; I was afraid …

Anyway, I want to learn more about his time as a circus clown.

How could I have known this rapport would suddenly flourish?

(I had a dream, myself, for years, of being a trapeze artist, flying.)

Anyway, I want to hear more of his time as a circus clown –

although yesterday I was wishing he wouldn’t arrive quite so early.

I dreamed, myself, for years, of being a trapeze artist, flying ...

Today is the once in forever when my cleaner and I share stories.

Written in response to a prompt from Pádraig Ó Tuama from Poetry Unbound: What time is it? (It's pantoum time)

(His instructions don't include the traditional pantoum rhyming – 

or any rhyming.)

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #229 

(off prompt in that context).