Poetry Reading

Back in February solicitations were made for presenters for the Sugarloaf UU pledge dinner.  I agreed to read some poetry.  Something changed in the interval and the reading never happened, so I thought I'd post it here . . .

Until recently Linda and I had a teen girl from Ethiopia living with us.  We’d intended to adopt her, but it didn’t work out.  That’s been painful, but back in June, when we were full of hope, I wrote this:

Morning Star

Shed your tears on our shoulders

Take our hands and together

    Let us face the East

For a new sun rises

A new day dawns

Together let us heal our broken bones

Together let us join our beating hearts

    That have never broken

Together let us form a circle

    Amidst the circles of our kin

Across the mighty face of Earth

She who loves us

And bears us gently home

. . .

Beginning of last year I got interested in poetry therapy, the use of literature as a means of personal healing.  I took on a wounding that I suffered from my father as a kid.  He’d wanted to read me a well known poem by John McCrae about world war I dead.  It’s a lovely poem that I’m sure most of you will recognize:

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
 
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
 
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

When I wasn’t able to receive the poem in the way he’d wanted my father let me know how disgusted he was with me.  It was one of many shamings I got when I turned out not to be what he’d wanted.  Last year, I wrote this:

In Flanders Fields my father dreamed

Of noble thoughts, high minded verse

As I walked innocently by

He halted me to hear those words

I might not learn in school

He would be pleased I knew

If I attentive, grateful, heard

From him those noble verses read.

I giggled.

Sternly, he began again.

I really tried.  Despairingly

I tried to hold at bay

My glee and his contemptuous glare

And failing as a literary don

He taught disgust instead.

I took the lesson in.

Oh I took up my quarrel with the foe

That lurked inside, recoiling from

The shame he planted there

And fought the futile battles till I know

That there are places less remarked

Where blood is shed, than Flanders Fields

. . .

McCrae’s famous poem takes a form called a rondeau, it’s one of many medieval French forms to make it’s way into English.  They’re fun to write and I’ve written several.  My favorite is this:

Between the worlds and restless dreams

Where shadows dance and moonlight streams

A spider waits on stealthy web

And feels the trembling in each thread

And coming is and going seems

As moonlight glints off swirling streams

Trees whisper, sighing in their dreams

Expectancy, or is it dread?

Between the worlds

The breeze demanding what it means

The spider skitters soft unseen

Across the taught and trembling web

Vibrations dance as mass is shed

A shadow slipstreams through the screen

Between the worlds

. . .

When I began writing a year or so ago I’d expected to write poetry in free verse; I had no reason to want to write end rhyme or metered lines; but to my surprise I found that if I set myself to write in verse forms something in me engaged the task with great pleasure and my imagination went places I wouldn’t have thought of otherwise.  A playful exercise in verse writing lead to what is probably my wife’s favorite of my recent compositions:

Two moonbeams came bouncing and glistening

Off of the shiny wood floor

They’d slipped through the louvers

Then straight on maneuvered

To the cat near the foyer door

“What ho” said the cat “are you stalking?”

“Then I will go stalking too

For the sky it is wide

And it’s my cat’s pride

To go prowling the night with the moon”

So the cat he ascended a moonbeam

His little feet silently crept

Round the shimmering sky

He was ever so sly

And he never did falter a step

And he gazed at the cities of angels

And he roamed through the lands of the elves

And he spoke to the dreams

Of the silvery moon beams

And he had a fine time for himself!

The morning of course found him napping

All curled in a tight little ball

For though sunlight is fine

A cat’s sense of time

Is a mystery pondered by all

. . .

My friends that’s my five minutes.  I thank you for your kind attention.  May we all be blessed.