Shield with Owl Figure

 

This gilded and silvered copper disk reveals

outstretched wings and grasping talons,

inlaid eyes of shell and turquoise,

light reflecting off contrasting movement.

The Moche (the Mohicas) flourished

six centuries: from Nepena River Valley

perhaps as far north as Piura River.

There was no tradition of writing –

the precise significance of owls 

at the burial site of Loma Tegra

is unknown. (Owls prey, fly at night ...)

Of mystical or divine power,

Owl is my totem, on my left side.

(On my right I have Serpent.)

Written for  Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #234: Words for Images, this is largely an erasure poem taken from the long text about this artwork at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. The erasing leaves me with some quite big chunks of sequential words from the original, so it also qualifies as a found poem. Only the last two lines, italicised to differentiate them from the rest, are my own words. (I did also place the third line of the third verse a little out of its original order.  It makes more sense this way in this context – and I so wanted to use it, for the wonderful sounds of the words as they roll over the tongue.)

Image and text are in public domain, open access.

But ...

 

It is the first Solstice of the year. The email asks us to tune in at midday our local time and ‘quieten outwardly and rise inwardly’ to ‘be part of a great chain of LIGHT around the planet.’ It suggests we ‘can touch and bless the hearts and minds of all people as they walk on Mother Earth and with her creatures.’ 

I do that. Later, in the mid-winter evening with overcast sky, I don’t take my old body out to commune with the elements. Instead, I light candles on the tiny altar in a corner of my bedroom, and do a small ritual there. 

no moon no stars –

but beyond walls and clouds

their shining lights

I think about things to let go of now, and others to bring in. We adapt with age. As my body gradually wears out, it is no longer easy for me to travel, nor even go out at night. Yet I am very content to stay safe and warm at home with my little cat, to read and write and dream. 

long cold night –

but my small cat purrs

in her sleep

There is much trouble in the world today. Was it ‘ever thus’? It seems our troubles are far more desperate than those of the past. And yet, the world remains beautiful as far as I can see.

still dark out –

but the beginnings

of birdsong

Written for dVerse Haibun Monday: First Solstice.

The quotations in the first paragraph come from a friend's newsletter originating from White Eagle Lodge.

Teeth, Hammer, Blooms

 

I read poems of past love, lost love –

and remind myself: no love is ever

really lost, or past. But so many

varieties! Some are sweet-smelling,

pretty while they last, but lasting

no longer than ephemeral blooms.

Still I think fondly back on their

kindly delights. Memory preserves,

even if I seldom return to them now

to remind myself of that sweet scent,

that simple, delectable taste.

Others are like crashing hammers

tearing down walls, opening up

separateness into huge, inclusive 

vistas of possibility, expansions 

ready to be enriched with detail,

then further expanded, further filled. 

Eventually, though, there is nowhere 

further to go without a fading 

into the amorphous. After all, 

a building without fixed edges
becomes vague, collapses to nothingness.

I dwell longest on those loves that satisfy 

like good food: you can get your teeth

solidly into them; the taste remains

on your tongue; the memory rises at will

to your recollecting palate. They fed you,

nourished, sustained. Perhaps, if

there was an end (there is always an end

sooner or later, even if it’s not until death),

you can still return years later and feel

that old enrichment renewed – that old

groundedness which is the best enchantment.

Written for Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #232, where we are asked to include in a piece of writing the three words I have used in the title of this poem. I am also inspired by reflecting on a couple of the poems in Rajani Radhakrishnan's new book, No Way Home.