Secret Blue

Secret Blue

They think I love purple best.

They see me tenderly nurture

my small pot of hearts-ease,

surround myself with amethyst,

wear clothes in all shades

from soft lavender to rich magenta –

but no, my longest, deepest love

is for blue – deep blue,

the colour of ocean

(the Pacific, that jewel

adorning these shores)

or the unequivocal, singing blue 

of a sunlit sky in high midsummer,

uninterrupted vista ...

the blue of cornflowers 

and sky-high mountains,

a love I shared with my Dad

when I was very young, before

I was disillusioned, learning him

selfish and weak ... but

the love of blue remains

(and of cornflowers and mountains).

Blue is the colour 

of my true loves' eyes –

two of my husbands,

three of my lovers:

(divided differently) three 

the pure, soft blue

of the sky in Spring; 

two the blue of the sea

lit with bright turquoise,

or the centre of a flame.

The darkest blue is the sapphire

in the ring you gave me –

dear third husband

and last lover –

to declare your love 

and mark our marriage.

The gold band is now so thin ...

and you gone seven years into death ...

I finally took it off. 

But I see it still without even looking:

a depth of blue so enduring 

it might be mistaken for black –

and far within, when I gaze,

that flash of hidden, constant light.

Written for Thotpurge's Poetry Tuesday #4 – Blue

And shared in Writers’ Pantry #4 at Poets and Storytellers United.

The Calling

The Calling

The moon high in my window 

floated, gazing, all the long nights,

claiming me: whispering, singing –

beginning in my far childhood

and never ending, not yet.

I knew and did not resist.

‘You,’ I said in my silent thought,

‘are my lover, my mother,

my teacher, my secret God.’

I chose with my whole heart.

Was chosen and chose.

Was claimed and laid claim.

It was written; witnessed by stars

and by the dark space of night itself.

Written in blood, carved deep.

It was always written.

The rest I was free to invent.

Life, other loves, children,

even other work, other

delights of the soul.

But here in the deep night

which is home, 

only this truth remains,

all else extraneous 

as the moon and I commune.

Written for Thotpurge's Poetry Tuesday #3 – Borrowed, where we are invited to 'borrow some magic' from a poem that inspires us. I've always loved Dylan Thomas's 'In my craft or sullen art'.

Also linking to Poets United's Pantry of Poetry and Prose #8. I'll be travelling when the Pantry goes live, with limited internet access for a couple of days, so I may be a trifle tardy reading and commenting on other's writings. I'll catch up soon!

Turning 80

Turning 80

For Karin

In a week it will be my birthday.

People already tell me: ‘looking good’ 

– for my age. I’ll be turning 80.

I don’t wish to be younger. I want 

to be 'young on the inside', as my friend 
who reached 80 a week ago says.

She is vibrant. Who sees wrinkles

behind her laughter, or weight of years

in her quick, jaunty steps and gestures?

I want to stay ever new, all 
my experiences kept, freshly alive.

I tell her, ’We are becoming ageless.’

Karin on her 80th:

Linked to Poetry Tuesday at THOTPURGE, 

where the word for Nov 5th is Old.