Art thou pale for weariness of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth it's constancy? Thou chosen sister of the Spirit, that gazes on thee til in thee it pities. . . -Shelley (To The Moon)

Sunday, January 24, 2010

The Weeping Church

January rain can put me in hibernation mode. It's all I can do just to go to the gym. Now I am huddled on the chesterfield in a maritime quilt, ready for some hot cocoa. Earlier, my sister and I were looking at the website for Versace Home. We oohed and aahed, and our pleasure wasn't spoiled to find the prices listed either, thank goodness. I hope we are all snug inside our own homes. . . unlike the character in my poem The Weeping Church. . . and I hope that our dreams our filled with palaces. . .

The above picture is After The Rain by Paul Cornoyer, and the one on the
right is called In The Rain by Ludovico Jr.

The traffic lights converge in red glare
He schemes mercilessly, I have lost him.

Sacra Familia Church behind weeps into muddy fissures

like tissues, how lonely
a holy home, ornately grey.

Occasional, mournful gongs -------
All these are blurring

I am aware of the worth of the rain
delivered in generous multitudes

Integral, and silver
My son now presses the pain as I consider leaving.

My body breaks with the stuttering engine
outside watered white pines wash my vision.

They alone could be my airless and Motherless haven.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Sonnet Untitled

It's nighttime. There are two ways to be alone. One is to be lonely, and the other is keep a secret. I was alone in the latter way, but now I'm letting it go, releasing a mystery here. . . If you are here, I'm alone no more, and hopefully you are not alone, either, if my mere words can keep you company.

The picture above is called Standing Bather by Pierre Auguste Renoir, and the one on the right is Summer Season by Marc Chagall.

no 2

I leave my clothes ballooning on the shore
and wade into the watr'y starry field
of ancient, navy depths I've swam before.
Is that you there - on Northern rocks - concealed?

Oasis! I am fooled again by wind

that twists the shadows, giving my dreams feet
while singing this to you, love: In a kind

of soulful searching I believe we'll meet.

I miss you, as I zip and belt my skirt,
when suddenly I hear the married chord
familiar - striking through our moonlit ford -
with music even rocks are made alert!

The air that carries your guitar's old rhyme -
Shows how close we were, now, this whole

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Invited or Not, please come in. . . . . .

If you are my neighbour, I invite you in today, to look at so
me pictures by Magritte (top to bottom) Die Grosse Famille, La Folie Almayer, Le Coup, Homesickness, and Cloud:

To the poem in the previous post, called Bridget's Fire, you can let yourself in, welcome.

Bridget's Fire

Beneath my living ribs
a mutable single cell is leashed
in coloured garlands - richly energetic vines.
Her twin, who is complete
fights for life while she renews.
This inner garden merges onto sinews
creating space - plateaus of peace - for light
to come from the brainy perch of balance.

* * * * * *

Ordered stars are building worlds
whorling constellations, warding 'way
poor conflict with its opposite: Balance.
Invisible caterpillars in the sky are horrible yet pure;
we make our consciousness revolt to fathom them.
As it is in the sky, can you see in my eyes
the path of the heart of a star?

* * * *

I learn and learn, through pain, through pain
I burn and burn, again to tame
the dragon that controls my brain
and teaches me to weild the flame.
All I witness lays cocooned
in the constant ash,
growing wings and fitness,
for its rebirth in a flash upon my mind's eye.
Cycling through my memory,
the only thing it does is die,
seeming extra-sensory, so wonderful
that I conclude it has intrinsic value
and no amount of dust occludes
the good I shall do.
* * *

He who is not my kind cannot provide relief.
Unless I make a friend of him,
I bear my burdens, unreleased.
It's not that I want him to pull me from the mire,
there is nothing he can do but let me love him.

I try to keep unloaded lest I can't look up to him
from bowing under weights my soul's diseases drop.

He is meant to share
My life as does air.

I feel brave standing
on the legs of a lion;
all things are so bright.

I am deeply sorry but I'm only a child and I seem to have lost my way. . . I've angered you, I've made a mistake, only. . . . I think that everything here is topsy-turvy! The wrong things are the right things. . . but I'm punished if I turn it 'round. I'm sorry but I must ask - is it me or is it you? Oh no, I didn't mean - I'm sorry! You are right - no you are wrong - I mean YES you are wrong! I'm only a child, and it's getting very tiring spending my life dreaming - for, pardon me, could you please say - is dreaming right or wrong? What do I mean by "right or wrong"? Why, I just asked you! (Now we're beginning to get somewhere) No I said I wish I had linen and velvet to wear! Im sorry to mutter but I'm only a girl, a whale, a wolf, a hawk, a snake, a cat, a man, a dog, a woman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A choice, a bird
Never to return
To see one flee at sunset
Is different than to watch at bright of day.
The bird, then, on an apple bough,
Does not shy away
I wouldn't eat a russet after dark
Or expect her stay 'til noon.

* * *

Laughing, bullishly,
winding up a spiral stair.
Sheathed in ice, with one torch for light,
I see nothing but one step ahead,
when I reach the height I want
I will throw my fire down to spread.

Under palatial conifers
crows, shining in shade, weave together
de-bedded roots, for a wildly-webbed gown.
I will wear it like witches' clothes or martyrs' robes
to grow roses in moonlight,
and toss their petals into cauldrons,
where they link and mirror stars.
Their symbols, shapes and stories influence afar.

A table of blue marble houses gilt-edged china:
my scroll is home to verses.
The better that each morsel tastes,
the longer it will linger.
Herein is my true fortune, not meager,
wasted, lost or dead;
here you are fed by things you feed,
and the leaves that hang abundantly
over river banks, doubling in the water,
are the soul's currency.

* * * * * * *

Born in liquid fire (blood)
the infant surveys the world
she begins to build.

Friday, January 1, 2010

Treasure Stream

It is the first day of the new year; we meet like new friends. Although I hope you come again, I hope it is always as a new friend. . . the best old friends are always new, in a way, because friendship is renewing? This is an old, stream of consciousness poem I wrote years ago called Treasure Stream, and I'm posting it anew here.

The above picture is La Morte D'Amour by A E Marty. The one on the right is Shells by Albert Joseph Moore.

Marigolds and eggplant, sunflower sprouts and thyme

exulting lombardies and shivering beeches
easy laughter by the stars over the sea

this blueberry wine, i'm here.
I stretch my supple side, bending with a sigh
point my toe towards the back, like a cat

I feel my own heart is better than feared it is leading.
adagio harmonies come to the fore

defeating dialogue and I am true.

all that happens glues together forces

rough and sweet like honeycomb.

i live better forgiven, i live better now, leading.
winds bring courage and humour

to the apex of faith and eroticism.

the lines of my hand
in clean pages, ageless,
child-wise are my gifts.
on shelves, on walls, beauties and dusty findings.
in my wallet, the bills and coins to pay my fares and enable trade.
i am modern.
i wear a pink and gold jacket like a home,
under the collar i wear the burn of a kiss.
it is always the same kiss now, it has been forever,

only changing winds of courage and humour.
the darkness becomes my friend.
i find knowledge here.
the night
that is never truly dark,
but shaded
contrasting blasts of white,
pleasant moons. when i ring a bell,
i think of my ancestors.
when i run in rain, i get younger.