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'.)