We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage / And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die, / We Poets of the proud old lineage / Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why ... (James Elroy Flecker)

30.5.26

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.)






25.5.26

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).


23.5.26

Katherine


is not in the world any more


had a generous, woman-shaped body


laughed warm and rich, with a witchy cackle

fully uproarious or huskily intimate


wise defender of women, knew also that men

can be in need of acceptance and comfort

became my friend and ally at our very first meeting, and

stayed that way the next three decades and more until she


left this life with grace, dignity, strength and courage, 

on her own terms, attending her own living wake,

helping design her own coffin and shroud


gave me a talented, original god-daughter – 

who, with her for a mother 

needed no extra sustenance or joy


shared with me Reiki, Tarot and witchcraft; though 

we arrived by different roads, our paths aligned


shared with me dreams and plans – hers and mine –

and loves and griefs and setbacks and adventures


told me decades before it happened: ‘Yes, Rosemary, 

you too will dance and sing for the Goddess’


stayed connected over distance and time


was a tall tree in my life, which, dead, still towers


















(Photo © Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2019)






Written for Poets and Storytellers United, for my own prompt: A Dead Tree, at Friday Writings #228.