The I

Time after time I imbibe my fine libations

(prescribed). I try to find ways to tie my mind 

to this tiresome task, reminding my wild self 

my life depends on it, and why I desire

this life to unwind slowly, not lightly fly

too fast into nothingness. To stay a while yet,

to fight to be I. ‘I am the light!’ I cry.

And my mind, even on the slightest shift,

the tiniest tangent, never mind one so mighty,

replies by trying to define the why of this cry:

why I, so minute, so minor, aspire to be light,

in fact to be THE light. The sun in the sky?

Dare I fly so high? What lies behind this

quiet pining to become in time a kind of fire?

I shy away from further enquiries, liking

questions better than replies which might

or might not provide bona fide answers

to guide my soul in the right direction. 

Night falls – lightly, silently, but timely,

defining the (rightly) finite kind of this

fine exploration or wild speculation or

benign diversion … now silence is mine.

Written to my own prompt for Friday Writings #166 at Poets and Storytellers United, in which I invite people to choose one letter/sound and see what happens when they concentrate on that in a piece of writing. 

I think a lot of nonsense has happened in this case! And it's hard for me to discern what effect the 'I' sound has, except perhaps to slow the movement down at times. In this case I wasn't choosing a sound to have an expected, particular effect. I was more exploring, to see what effect this repetition might have. I wanted to see what a vowel sound would do, and chose this one at random.

Torch-bearing

 

We Goddesses of Shining Light – who do not

claim to be ourselves divinities, only

that we seek to embody, as best we might,

Her good qualities –

have been slowly ageing, over all these years

of meeting and sending out our love as light

to the whole community, and thence the world.

Now we’re old and few.

We no longer dance in circle when we meet,

nor sing to Her, but still we breathe in, breathe out

a flood of light, which first we see as a star

and then as our torch

beaming wherever needed. We have become

a small circle of elders, the grandmothers

who, someone on facebook said, are needed now.

Well then, here we are!

How will you use us, world, before we leave you?

That is not ours to know or even to ask.

It is enough that we meet, as do other

small wisdom circles.

The world has no listening for our wisdom.

We are wise enough to understand this fact,

wise enough to know our only task: send light,

continue sending.

This is loosely based on the Sapphic stanza (aka Sapphic ode). I was inspired by Rajani Radhakrishnan's recent use of the form. Named after Greek poet Sappho, this form (in its 'lesser' version) has 38 syllables in four lines in a pattern of 11/11/11/5, which I have followed. However, I have ignored patterns of long and short syllables which are also classically used.

Written for Friday Writings #165 at Poets and Storytellers United, in which we are asked to use the word 'torch' in a piece of writing.

What Is Love?

 

‘I don’t understand,’ she says, 

‘the meaning of the word.

It’s bandied about so carelessly, 

with so many different meanings.

I know several light workers

who claim to be loving, but 

they don’t show it in their actions

nor even in some of their talk.’ 

I suggest she call it affection.

Or friendship. Or caring for

another’s wellbeing. Or simply

being happy in another’s company.

‘A warm feeling,’ I offer. No,

on reflection, none of that works

for her. (She admits to knowing how

affection feels, but finds it limited.)

Seems it’s romantic love specifically 

which she doubts – doubts its reality,

its existence. ‘Again, you want it 

to be just one thing,’ I tell her. 

‘What if there are various kinds, even 

of that?’ I list in my mind the types 

I’ve known, while she continues

to question if all can be valid. 

There’s the sad and the happy, I think.

But it’s still love, no matter the end.

In fact, it doesn’t end, even if we part. 

Love, if true, is always … or for my life. 

Are some romantic loves more passionate, 

some less? Ah, if romantic at all, passion

happens, unless its nature has changed. 

‘It’s all very subjective!’ I admit. 

She quotes Erich Fromm, who opines

‘Love is not primarily … towards

one object…  Because one does not see 

that love is an activity, a power of the soul,

one believes that all that is necessary

is to find the right object.’ (So we’re back to 

love in general.) She signs her email: ‘How-

ever you wish to interpret this, Heapsa love.’

This was an actual discussion, though edited and to some extent fictionalised for poetic reasons. It happened to take place in synchronicity with Magaly's prompt 'Love Is Love' for Friday Writings #164  at Poets and Storytellers United this week, discussing whether there is only one kind of romantic love or several.

The Night You Died

 for Dallas

Known, though not at once identified

(the news came later) your shadowy presence

lifted me from sleep, your spirit waking mine.

                                ***

The only other bedside we ever shared 

was a hospital one, when I came to visit 

your newborn son and his mother.

Though ours was not a sensual love,

you surprised me one time —

a light goodbye kiss.

You were being transferred.

Letters at least were free, until the years

of your sentence elapsed.

What was real we decided gradually: you 

untrusting, wary; me uncertain ... at that first 

prison poetry workshop, 40 years gone. 

A revision of an earlier version which I thought was too lacklustre to adequately commemorate this long and dear friendship.

It's an important poem to me, because it was an important relationship. I'd love feedback on how it's working now, e.g. do you think it needs more detail, more explanation?

Sharing with Friday Writings #162 at Poets and Storytellers United.

I must ...

 

‘I must go and visit Robyn’ (now in an aged care home near me) I keep telling myself – and keep putting it off. Finally I realise why: that’s where my Andrew died.

a black butterfly

in my neglected garden

flutters aimlessly