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.

Epitaph for Myself

I never got to be

a world-famous poet

but I did live 

to be 86 

(so far)

and that’ll 

do 

Re-Surfacing

From the depths of memory,

the wilfully forgotten:

wide suddenly, and full of light, this

window to the past, or

towards the past at least –

the past that soared, then swiftly flew.

Granite could not be harder than this

shore I’m wrecked on. Yet,

the harbour walls I thought I built,

white with age as they are, don’t conceal

sails dancing across the water; never

still, whether tossed or rocked gently.

Fly, then, sweet sails! Memory, turn

seaward at last, with the longing that is ever

seaward, ever returning to this particular shore, this

flying, with the wind behind us … remaining

unbroken after all. I can resist no more. 

Wings, spread! Wings, soar! Fly forever!

An acrostic based on TS Eliot's stirring lines from 'Ash Wednesday':

From the wide window towards the granite shore

The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying

Unbroken wings 

Written for my own prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, for Friday Writings #231: White Sails Flying, where I invite people to be inspired by those lines, and if desired use them in an acrostic. Apologies, everyone! Until I tried it myself – after setting the prompt – I hadn't realised what difficult lines they are to use that way. 

My scenario is fictional, but based vaguely on things in my life: not one specific situation or buried memory, but some loves that didn't last, and a childhood and adolescence spent near water, 'messing about in boats' – though mostly rowboats and motor-boats. (Although much in love with sailing boats always, I never did any real sailing myself except as a passenger.)

Settling

Outside, it’s an overcast, drizzly day. 

I’m warm inside, still in pyjamas.

A lad with a leaf blower is noisy out there.

In here, my small cat and I are cosy, quiet.

I’m warm inside, and still, here in my pyjamas.

All my old longings have quieted with age.

My small cat and I are cosy. Never mind

the world, full of wars and climate disasters.

All my old longings have quieted with age.

The world still has beauty, natural and man-made,

even though it is also full of wars and climate disasters.

I’m bound to leave it in a few years anyway.

Yes, it still has beauty, both natural and man-made:

even that lad with his leaf blower, noisy out there.

Well, I’m bound to leave it in a few years anyway.

Need I care that, outside, it’s overcast and drizzly today? 

In Remembrance of You

 

I bought myself a ring:

silvery, shaped like a fox.

I slip it on my right hand,

on the third finger. On my left

I still wear my wedding ring

from Andrew, although I am 

long widowed. You too are dead.

I’m fourteen years a widow now.

It feels long. You, I have mourned

54 years already. It seems like 

yesterday. I don’t need a ring

to remember you, or him. 

But I like the thought of at last 

bringing you, too, physically present.

Great Mystery

 

After dancing with him in the forest

one recalls few details – only the speed

of reckless feet, the rush of wind

through flowing hair, the giddying swirl

inside firm arms holding safe, and 

the after-taste of ecstasy. (He has

many names, the Horned God.)

Written for Quadrille 249 at dVerse. (44 words not including title, which on this occasion must include some form of the word 'horn'.)

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.