From the Sky

(Zuihitsu)

From the sky is rising delirious music – light and sound together, singing and dancing. I look to the clouds; they swirl and disperse and re-integrate. They move constantly, but gentle and slow.

Unless storm comes, then they agitate and deepen, they seem to scowl.

But the sky does not scowl at me, I won’t believe it. From the sky has always come my help, my source of wisdom. Those eyes in the sky that see me clear and watch over me. Those voices that make new sentences in my soul, which I then hear as wisdom, as protective advice. 

Obey the voice of the sky! Then watch the clouds, and move like they. Don’t cower; they’re only going dancing.

I make of my dreams a cloud. I make of my cloud a veil. I drop it over me. It hides me. It conceals me from the world. It keeps me safe. Inside that veil I can soar, I can sing.

I walk out into the world. I am wrapped, invisibly to other people but not to me, in a cloak like fine-spun silk, a cloak of sky.

People don’t see this, but trees do … and birds, and dogs and cats … 

Some young children see it too, I know as our eyes briefly meet.

Written for dVerse Meeting the Bar: Zuihitsu. (Does this meet the form? I'm not sure. It's my first attempt. 'Follow the brush,' we are told. So I followed my random thoughts.  Is zuihitsu the same as stream of consciousness? I'm not a fan of  James Joyce, nor even Jack Kerouac ... but I do love Kimiko Hahn, who has done much to introduce zuihitsu to the Western world.)

If Life is Meaningless, Why Bother?

 

‘Has life a meaning?’ I posed 

as a theoretical question, once, 

to a couple I knew.

‘Has life a meaning,’ 

she returned, ‘– for whom?’

‘Exactly!’ said he.

I dismissed them in my mind

for poor understanding. 

I was 24.

Now, at 86, I maintain 

it doesn’t matter if life seems – 

or is – without meaning. 

Why bother? Because I happened: 

I have a life. Because I wish to enjoy, 

to savour this (arguably random) gift. 

Because I wish that

it count for something.

If only to me. 

Because, whatever it may or may not 

mean in the grand scheme 

(if there is one), 

I may give it whatever 

personal meaning I choose. And

I do so choose.

Written  for Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #223: Why Bother?  (Also, a poet I admired once told me, 'Philosophy is death to poetry.'  This is an attempt to show that they can sometimes combine with no detriment to either – though, some readers may think that I have produced neither!)

My Bones

The bones of my body

are reinforced now

with calcium injections –

effective. Despite the falls (I 

am old) my bones don’t break.

The bones of my long life, 

however – the scaffolding, 

the structure, holding me, 

enabling me – are words, 

poems. Without them, how lost …

Written for Quadrille $245: Writing Down the Bones  (a title inspired by my all-time favourite book for writers, of the same title, by Natalie Goldberg).

I have been a little unwell recently – nothing to worry about, but it has turned off my poetic inspiration for a few days, and I have indeed felt at a loss. Thank heavens (and dVerse, and in this instance De Jackson aka WhimsyGizmo) for the Quadrille form, to which I can seldom fail to respond. It is 44 words exactly, excluding title, and must include a particular word, this time 'bones'.

In Her Garden

 

Inca nuts (called sacha inchi) grow.

Leave them out in the sun long enough, 

she shows us, and the tough shells burst open 

all by themselves, to release the kernels. 

They’ll save your life in many ways,

she says. But roast before eating!

Also there are purple flowers

called Clitoria for their erotic shape. 

She lifts the blooms from their stems, 

drops them in warm water, which makes it blue, 

then adds a squirt of lemon juice into every glass

and it turns purple. The taste is delicate, sweet.

Her friend the kookaburra comes to her call,

sits on the veranda rail and grins at her I swear

with his big wide clacking beak. She coos at him 

and strokes and fluffs the feathers at the back of his neck.

Often, I know, she feeds him witchetty grubs

she finds for him, foraging down there in her garden.

I'm not doing the full April Poem A Day thing this year, because (a) my son and his partner came for a visit and (b) I got a bit unwell and had to spend a couple of days in hospital, and now am taking things quietly for the next little while. It was very fortuitous that family were here at the right time, to look after me and also after Poppi cat during my brief absence from home. (It was fluid on the lung following a slight head cold which I mistook for the tail end of my Summer allergies. The infection, slight as it was, put a strain on the old heart, and that in turn caused the fluid on the lung. All treated and medicated now and I will follow up with GP straight after Easter. Doctors at hospital are not too worried about me, and I know what symptoms should take me back to the hospital if they occur. So please don't be alarmed.)  Meanwhile, just before all this happened, I had a lovely day at my friend's, as described above, and I did have a look at the first April prompt at Poetic Asides, which was 'seed'.  So I began this poem, which got interrupted by the drama ... and finished it just now, days later. Maybe I'll do a few more poems this April, and maybe they'll be inspired by the prompts. We'll see. But I am definitely not going to attempt the usual frantic marathon!

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #221 April Quotes.  No quotes here, but at least this took place in April – although only the date of posting tells you that.

My Town

 

In my town, silence

deepens as the night

slows to late.

From my hill, I observe

streets and houses 

settling down to bed.

An occasional dog.

A passing night bird.

One or two homing cars.

Then it belongs

to me and poetry

alone. Mine.

A second Quadrille about silence (inspired by dVerse) in response to a request from one of the others who answered the prompt, who wrote of his town and wondered what others might say of theirs in 44 words. (I'm not sharing this with the dVerse group as a whole, as we were only asked for one Quadrille to address the prompt, and mine is the poem I posted here just before this one. But it's fine of course if they happen across it.)

Poetry and Duty

 

Conscience tells me 

not to be silent.

When poetry is duty

is it still a poem?

But in these times, 

being human 

gives everyone the duty

the imperative 

to speak against

all the kinds of destruction

by which 

we are taking 

ourselves 

into silence.

A Quadrille written for Shhhhhhh.......Quiet, Please!  at dVerse. 

(Quadrille: 44 words excluding title – which in this instance must include some form of the word 'silent'.)

Coping with the World

 

Listening to the thin squeak 

of my radio turned low

playing non-stop jazz 

all day and night, but not

to disturb the neighbours … 

I fill my dark with

other people’s dreams.

I read, too – stories that all 

end happily, they are all alike. 

Afterwards, I forget them.

Looking Back

 

I see me small, on a vast lawn – a smooth green lawn surrounded by bushes, some of them berry bushes, others flowers. There are two huge weeping willows further down the yard, one on either side of the vegetable garden past the end of the lawn, beyond the wooden trellis summer-house.

I am all alone. The two-storey back of the house looms large and flat. My mother, upstairs, sometimes looks out the distant kitchen window to check on me. Her face is tiny, far away and pale, ghost-like.

Yet I don’t feel lonely. All around me the garden throbs with life. Insects are drawn to the flowers, small birds to the berries. The willow leaves, on their long dangling fronds that sweep the ground, rustle and toss, lightly and gently, in intermittent breeze.

I talk in my mind to clouds, to birds, to insects, to berries … to the rising trunks and curtaining fronds of both the soft green willows. I talk to the listeners under the ground and the watchers behind the sky.

When they reply, it is not as if to a small child. They answer all my questions, calmly. I feel rather than hear their answers. I feel, too, their assurance of my understanding.

My young mother, enclosed in the house, does, I think (I think in hindsight) feel fearfully alone … lonely …

Written for Poets and Storytellers United, Friday Writings #219.