Dragon and Mountain

I asked my dear friend Phill, a digital artist, to create for me a sacred image to signify, formally, a role I’d been given. A man overseas invited me into a tradition of dragon magic with communities in various countries – an honour. I loved and admired him; I already worked with dragons; I agreed. Each locality was designated a ‘tor,’ mine named for the town where I live. 

I requested a design suggesting our local mountain: viewed from my location, ia high, pointed summit on the left, then two humps descending to the right. I saw it shaping the word ‘Am,’ for Being. Asked what colours I'd like, I chose green and purple, the colours of the Women’s Movement. (I've since learned that there is a sacred Indgenous women's site on the mountain .)

Phill put this image inside a sphere. He added – unasked, but inspired – a seven-pointed star in the background, symbol of the Faery realm, in a form that could be viewed as loosely woven fabric or gently radiating light.

The magical man’s dragon tradition grew warlike. It was metaphorical; even so, I rejected that identification. The dragons I knew were benevolent. I couldn’t, in conscience, establish a branch of his tradition here. I resigned. He saw this as betrayal. 

He had overcome many challenges, requiring a warrior’s mind-set, so I didn’t seek to change him but I wouldn’t join him. He cut off all communication with me.

I decided to keep the symbol I'd designed, reclaiming it as a statement of my own being, my own connection to the mountain (which I have felt from the first encounter).

The artist, my soul-brother, died: cancer, sudden and quick. From his hospital bed, at my request, witnessed by his family, he gave me permission to save all his digital art to do whatever I like with. I've no particular plans; I just didn’t want it lost if his website lapsed. 

Later, it happened that I was one of a group of white Australians given by a local Indigenous elder the freedom of this land, Githabul land. It includes the mountain.

sometimes at twilight

I look up at the mountain

and glimpse a dragon –

its shadowy back a swathe

along the darkening ridge

Written for Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #120: A Touch of Formality

Tulips to Wattles

 A journal asked for haiku submissions with the traditional 5/7/5 syllable count, and including the Spring word 'tulip.'  But it's Autumn in Australia, and I'm not very motivated to submit to journals anyway. However, the word did spark memories of things my late second husband Willem Johan Nissen, known as Bill (my longest marriage; father of my children) told me of his early years in Holland and arrival in Australia.

   Photo by Ingrid de Kort, used with permission

pictures of tulips –

my mind flies to that Dutchman

my late ex-husband

tulips and canals

bring recollections of war

and occupation

tulips … tiptoe through

memories of Dutch childhood

during the war years

tulips not mentioned 

he whispers tales of horror –

occupied Holland

tulips are not food –

green roadside weeds and grasses

served during the war

the land of tulips –

growing up in a fortress

Naarden's star-shaped walls

tulips or wattles – 

arriving at fifteen, soon

a dinkum Aussie

tulips didn’t grow

in the migrant encampment

among metal huts

tulips left behind

along with soccer training, 

he tried Aussie Rules

Bill Nissen at 29, at the time 

we got engaged (1965)

I'm sharing this with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #119: In Memoriam. It's quite coincidental, and most serendipitous, that I posted the above, which so well fits the prompt, only two days ago.

Relief from Summer Ailments

Here it begins, my seasonal agenda,

just for myself, unknown to most of you.

It has the constancy and repetition of devout

ritual; it’s a descent from dire peak to safe plateau.

I desist from drops and medication as soon as the warm

fades, and pack away compression stockings – it’s Autumn!

Form: a ‘broken acrostic,’ with the letters of the acrostic word (the true title of the poem) appearing at ends, not beginnings of lines.

For Friday Writings #119: Strange Springs at Poets and Storytellers United, Magaly invites us to write on strange Spring rituals. But it’s Autumn in Australia, and I’m currently most interested in my own personal, very welcome ways of marking the change of season. (Actually I can’t do either just yet, still too early – but soon!) 

Love Letter to a Favourite Companion

Wrap yourself around me

in a warm and tender embrace!

Enclose me, enfold me, 

keep the cold world out!

Not only protective,

you’re also good-looking. 

I love your shape, your colour

(not insipidly pale like me).

When you’re with me,

cuddling close, I feel 

more beautiful myself.

I walk more proudly.

It’s been a long and faithful,

happy partnership. True,

I’ve sometimes flirted with others,

but none had your depth or breadth.

You’re different from them all. 

You’re more complete. Solid,

not frivolous. And you stroke my skin

delightfully, but you never tickle.

 

We’re both ageing now.

I only hope that you will be 

the one to outlast me, and stay

to hug me gently at the end.

Photo: Mirror selfie of me wearing my beloved ruana wrap.

Written for Friday Writings #117: Sensual Clothing at Poets and Storytellers United.