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).

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.

Winter Beach

Restless, the sea foam

flashes quicksilver.

Watching, I long to be a mermaid,

lifting the tangles of my hair

to the keen windrush.

Then the ebb tide

rolls back, long and slow.

The crests of the waves

peak like white wings

of skimming gulls

before the water, far out there,

smooths to transient peace.

Written in response to Poetics: Names of the Rose at dVerse. We are asked to include at least five from a list of rose names. I have used a few more: Restless, Sea Foam, Quicksilver, Mermaid, Tangles, Windrush, Ebb Tide, White Wings, Peace. One option was to make the poem about the approach of Summer, but here in Australia it's Winter that is approaching. I used the memory of a beach I used to live near and loved to walk in Winter. I also loved to photograph it.

Hunting the Perfect Book for Today

 

A cloudy day with bouts of rain,

a public holiday long weekend.

I decide to stay in my PJs all day,

eat easy-cook comfort food, 

and look through my bookshelves

for something equally delicious

to savour – or to add more sweet.

My home is full of bookshelves!

The biggest ones won’t fit the unit

so they’re out in the garage, lining

the long, high walls. They hold

my huge poetry collection (I’ll have to

donate it to some institution in my will);

my art books, from Old Masters to Banksy; 

a big shelf of those novels I must frequently 

re-read (some I’ve loved since childhood, 

others discovered over all the rest of my life);

another shelf detailing a range of spiritual

and energy healing manuals, plus wisdom 

for the soul, including the King James version 

of the Bible (the one that’s written in poetry);

and a shelf full of books on magic – not

the stage kind, but witchcraft, Druidry, 

shamanism, ceremonial magicianship and

the Qabala. Then, inside the house, the tall

bedroom bookshelf houses my several translations

of the I Ching, a number of other oracles, and

my many tomes on theTarot. Plus all my cards.

The lounge-room shelves are for overflow:

my favourite books for writers; some biographies;

feminist classics; encyclopaedias; books I wrote;

books my late husband wrote; folders full of my 

early poems (before I stored them on computer);

and old journals (ditto). But, hooray! I finally find

what I want on the virtual shelf, my beloved e-reader.

Written for FridayWritings #225 at Poets and Storytellers United, which invites us to find inspiration on our bookshelves.