Is There Joy In Chaos?

 

That may depend on whether

the chaos is self-created 

or random, but then again 

it might depend more 

on the particular kind of chaos, 

no matter where it originates,

because there are some 

we can cope with, such as 

a sudden rainstorm, or 

the clean-up after a party,

and some we can even, yes, rejoice in, 

like watching an out-of-nowhere 

influx of shooting stars, or like 

the wild, merry dancing 

at the aforesaid party: a crowd 

of people somewhat tipsy 

and very festive, loving the music; 

and then there’s the chaos 

we all want to run away from —

the pandemics, the wars, 

the natural disasters, those

from which we long for a saviour …

and there’s the chaos that follows 

after we elect who we think

is just such a saviour, and that one 

begins to actually do the things 

that were promised, and then 

we see what that looks like

and feels like, and we realise: 

No, there is no joy in this.

Written for Friday Writings #162: Joy In Chaos at Poets and Storytellers United.

Wanting to Show My New Cat to My Mum

 Wanting to Show My New Cat to My Mum

I find myself wanting to show my new cat 

to my Mum, picturing how she will like

this one in particular, so pretty and sweet;

and it’s only idly, later, I remind myself

my Mum has been dead since 1998,

and we were never all that close anyway,

couldn’t get over our suspicions of each other

(coming from being completely different 

kinds of people and never finding the right 

manner of talking together) but I’ve surely 

had enough time to get over all that, and 

I dare say she will have too, where she is:

I’m sure people rise to their highest and best

after shuffling off this mortal, and can 

love so much more; and she did after all 

like cats – though probably dogs 

better when I come to think of it – well,

regardless, I wish I could show her.

 

Poetic Asides prompt #19 for April poetry month of 2021 is to write a poem with an animal in the title.

On with the Dance

On with the Dance

Now they come dancing

on soft, precise paws:

the tabbies, the greys,

the two black 

shadowy

just beyond sight, 

glimpsed 

in corners of vision

or else fully seen

with the eyes of dream

or consciously summoned

memory 

brought back to life

in welcome moments,

drawn by the newcomer,

number eight 

in my roster

of feline children,

furry friends, loves 

of my blessed life

gathering to see

and I dare say greet

the living cat

who graces me now

with her sweet face

her intent gaze

her unique coat of sable

her dancing feet.

Written in response to Weekly Scribblings #62: Shut Up And Dance With Me at Poets and Storytellers United.

Top to bottom: Guinivere, Levi and Freya, Selene, Poppi.
Not shown: Isolde (tabby), Sam (tabby) and Ishtar (grey).

The Knowing

The Knowing

Down in my bones I feel,

deeply, the stir of truth –

lighter than a pinprick, 

fainter than a whisper, 

easy to miss or ignore;

not so much a voice

as an echo,

not so much a ripple 

as a shiver,

lasting a moment only

unless I stop

and pay attention –

when it responds,

rising, swelling, 

making a murmur

and finally filling

my whole body:

lifting my arm, my hand,

moving my legs and feet,

speaking through my throat

with the resonance

of the absolute,

the clarity

of a slicing knife,

the directness of the heart.

Written in response to Weekly Scribblings #50: 'Down In My Bones' at Poets and Storytellers United.

At Times ...

At Times …

I have, at times, a slight wheeze
in the back of my throat,
which, coming up unexpectedly
as if from nowhere, sounds just like
the plaintive miaow of my last cat –
my darling, my treasure –
a strange foundation
for loving memory, I must say,
yet no less affecting for that,
catching me quite like a sob….


Written in response to Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings #34: Foundation.

That does not come to an end …

That does not come to an end …

Soft light is

widening your 

eyes; don’t go until

I tell you one more

time how much those

eyes, their quickening

light, inspire me: so

wide, so luminously 

regarding me – as if

I am suddenly golden in 

your brightened sight, as

the last flare of sunset maybe, or

like new Spring flowers (let’s

say daffodils, or perhaps

buttercups) which I know you

would look for in your Northern

Hemisphere now … so tell me, do

you miss it badly, or could you

refrain from return, could

staying here with me become

a lasting light, a new vision, say,

oh say!

Written for Weekly Scribblings #17 at Poets and Storytellers United, where Sanaa invites us to use enjambment, i.e. 'a thought or sense, phrase or clause, in a line of poetry that does not come to an end at the line break, but moves over to the next line'.

Dear readers, this poem is not autobiographical! I was playing around to see if I could enjamb every line in a way that was not just chopped-up prose but poetically necessary, or at least effective ... and somehow it led to my doing a one-sentence poem, a form which I'm particularly fond of. I had fun. I hope you think it worked.

Failure of Discourse

Failure of Discourse

When a youngish John Travolta on TV,

in a doco about Scientology, asks,

“Where else can I find a religion

whose primary goal is joy?” 

I laugh, and reply out loud, 

“Ever heard of Paganism?” 

but of course he can’t hear 

through the screen.


Sharing at The Tuesday Platform for 17 July 2018 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.