SunneFyre's Den...A
Warm and Comfy SpaceSunneFyre's Den...A
Warm and Comfy SpaceA site I enjoyed: Apropos
of Nothing ( Save Desire ) http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Crete/9830
A site I use often: University
of Toronto Library Searchable Index
This next one, a favorite of mine, can be found in Cries of the Spirit : Celebration of Women's Spirituality, Marilyn Sewell (Editor)
I am nailing them up to the cathedral door
Like Martin Luther. Actually, no,
I don't want to resemble that Schmutzkopf
(See Erik Erikson and N.O. Brown
On the Reformer's anal aberrations,
Not to mention his hatred of Jews and peasants),
So I am thumbtacking these ninety-five
Theses to the bulletin board in my kitchen.
My proposals, or should I say requirements,
Include at least one image of a god,
Virile, beard optional, one of a goddess,
Nubile, breast size approximating mine,
One divine baby, one lion, one lamb,
All nude as figs, all dancing wildly,
All shining. Reproducible
In marble, metal, in fact any material.
Ethically, I am looking for
An absolute endorsement of loving-kindness.
No loopholes except maybe mosquitoes.
Virtue and sin will henceforth be discouraged,
Along with suffering and martyrdom.
There will be no concept of infidels,
Consequently the faithful must entertain
Themselves some other way than killing infidels.
And so forth and so on. I understand
This piece of paper is going to be
Spattered with wine one night at a party
And covered over with newer pieces of paper.
That is how it goes with bulletin boards.
Nevertheless it will be there.
Like an invitation, a chalk pentangle,
It will emanate certain vibrations.
If something sacred wants to swoop from the universe
Through a ceiling, and materialize,
Folding its silver wings,
In a kitchen, and bump its chest against mine,
My paper will tell this being where to find me.
-- Alicia Ostriker
After seeing this, I took a line from it and wrote my own. I love the springboard effect of taking one line or a thought from someone else's poetry and jumping off into a different or deeper direction.
Kindliness
Rupert Brooke,(1887-1914)
When love has changed to kindliness -- -
Oh, love, our hungry lips, that press
So tight that Time's an old god's dream
Nodding in heaven, and whisper stuff
Seven million years were not enough
To think on after, make it seem
Less than the breath of children playing,
A blasphemy scarce worth the saying,
A sorry jest, "When love has grown
To kindliness -- - to kindliness!" . . .
And yet -- - the best that either's known
Will change, and wither, and be less,
At last, than comfort, or its own
Remembrance. And when some caress
Tendered in habit (once a flame
All heaven sang out to) wakes the shame
Unworded, in the steady eyes
We'll have, -- - that day, what shall we do?
Being so noble, kill the two
Who've reached their second-best? Being wise,
Break cleanly off, and get away.
Follow down other windier skies
New lures, alone? Or shall we stay,
Since this is all we've known, content
In the lean twilight of such day,
And not remember, not lament?
That time when all is over, and
Hand never flinches, brushing hand;
And blood lies quiet, for all you're near;
And it's but spoken words we hear,
Where trumpets sang; when the mere skies
Are stranger and nobler than your eyes;
And flesh is flesh, was flame before;
And infinite hungers leap no more
In the chance swaying of your dress;
And love has changed to kindliness.
Dorothy Parker was a wonderfully wicked wit. This
quote and poem can be found here.
"ENOUGH ROPE was published in December of 1926, and by the Spring of
1927 it was making publishing history by
becoming a best seller, an almost unprecedented achievement for a volume
of poetry. (Form...lines 2, 4, 5 and 7 indented in each stanza)"
Ballade At Thirty-Five
This, no song of an ingenue,
This, no ballad of innocence;
This, the rhyme of a lady who
Followed ever her natural bents.
This, a solo of sapience,
This, a chantey of sophistry,
This, the sum of experiments
I loved them until they loved me.
Decked in garments of sable hue,
Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents,
Wearing shower bouquets of rue,
Walk I ever in penitence.
Oft I roam, as my heart repents,
Through God's acre of memory,
Marking stones, in my reverence,
"I loved them until they loved me."
Pictures pass me in long review
Marching columns of dead events.
I was tender and, often, true;
Ever a prey to coincidence.
Always knew I the consequence;
Always saw what the end would be.
We're as Nature has made us - hence
I loved them until they loved me.
During a search for something else, I found this on a student's personal website at Harvard University. If you know who the author is...or even where I found this poem (due to system crash lost the bookmark *sigh*) that would be great! I loved it. (Due to crash...could only retrieve w/o returns. Added my own for clarity...apologies to original author.) After a websearch, I have come to the conclusion that it can be attributed to one of two people. However, I have no way of knowing which is the correct author.
Comes the Dawn
After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand
and chaining a soul.
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning, and company doesn't mean
security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts, and presents aren't
promises.
And you begin to accept your defeats with your head held high and your
eyes open, with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child.
And you learn to build your roads on today, because tomorrow's ground
is too uncertain for plans, and futures have a way of falling down in midflight.
After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much
so you plant your own garden, and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting
for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure that you really are strong
and you really do have worth and you learn and learn with every goodbye
you learn.
This is long, but it is one of my favorites. When I read this in my second helping of EngLit we were asked what we thought this meant. Due to my psych focus, I took it as diving into the unconscious or looking at memories...what about you?
Diving Into The Wreck, Adrienne Rich (1973)
First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.
There is a ladder.
the ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it's a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.
I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.
First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.
And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.
I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed.
the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.
This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body
We circle silently about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he
whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instrument
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass
We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who finds our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.
I have read and re-read this poem countless times. Does it call to you? I know that there are times when I have worn the mask...I do not wear it so often anymore...I have faced many of my demons...and I think that I have won...
We Wear the Mask, Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)
(1913)
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes --
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
I have loved this poem since I
first saw it when I was 11 years old.
The Village Blacksmith, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
Sappho (translated by Barnard)
(Untitled, Circa 630 BCE)
Tonight I've watched
the moon and then
the Pleiades
go down
The night is now
half-gone; youth
goes; I am
in bed alone
Eternal Flame
3/21/99
Brighid’s flame beckoned me
closer than I wished to be.
Yes, I feared the significance,
But I turned to her from poverty.
Brighid’s flame inspired me
& offered more than I could see.
Yes, I feared the consequence,
But I turned to her for poetry.
Brighid’s flame enveloped me
& burned away timidity.
Ah, now, now I see her influence,
as we burn through this reality.
I have been reading Sappho,
and I wonder if her sun,
her stars, and her moon are mine.
She speaks of watching the moon
and the pleiades go down,
and she is still
in bed alone.
I, too, am alone.
My sun has departed and my
moon rises. Words that once
had meaning dance on the pages.
What comfort is there in these words now?
Too soon I will try to chase the sun back
into the sky. Who will help me find the sun?
The moon rises and I, too, am still
in bed alone.
Friend to My Mind
(For L.S.) 1/14/99
I think that you understand
Me better than anyone.
You keep my thoughts and words
Company on dark days.
If I raise a brow in your direction,
You know to laugh or frown as required.
If I send you a laughing glance,
You roll your eyes appropriately.
I love it when you finish my thoughts as
the words are chasing themselves off my tongue.
When I'm searching for just the right tone
You are waiting patiently to hand it to me.
Don't rush, you say. Take your time, you say,
Because you know I want to be precise.
Words are my life, you nurture mine
And me.
A friend gave me feedback on this...perhaps
I should wait for neither knight, but join forces with the dragon to create
my own fate. Interesting...
Dragon Thoughts
1/12/99
As a damsel slightly distressed and confronting my dragonself,
I am aware that I await my dark knight.
There is something about a man in black that soothes and comforts
Even as it agitates and unnerves.
We do not await the white knight.
He is too perfect and a hard act to follow.
Would not perfection rightly expect the same?
We have no wish to live up to his expectations.
He would slay my scaly dragon, expect my thanks
And probably expect me to wear white as well.
This white knight will want me to sit and sew while I listen to how
He killed my dragon and how much safer I am now.
The black knight is fond of leather and has a wicked laugh.
My dragonself and I, we pace and check our watch.
We can hear the thunder of an imminent arrival.
We clasp hand in scaly claw, squeeze shut our eyes and send a plea.
That fervent plea wings skyward to whatever gods or fates
Watch over damsels and their dragons.
We hope the white knight has been distracted by some shiny damsel elsewhere.
We have an appointment with black leather and most importantly,
We wish to incite wicked laughter.
And Blood Lies Quiet, For All You're Near
1/14/99
[with thanks to Seamus
Murphy (1960-) and Rupert Brooke (1887-1914)]
I look at you and see what might have been.
You look at me and I know you've never seen
The once remembered longing.
I look at you and think of hot summer days,
Your body glistening,
Your laughter enticing,
Your eyes roving.
I never told you that I watched
And wanted.
I never told you about the rush of passion.
And in not telling,
Not sharing,
It had no choice.
It faded to a quiet memory that
Occasionally winks and laughs at me,
That once remembered longing.
You set my soul on fire,
Then stepped back with a grin.
You warmed your hands a bit, then
Offered to toast me a marshmallow,
But only if I offered you the match
For my heart.
I looked at you with some dismay,
Because, you see, I had plans for that
Soul and my heart.
But your grin was so enticing and
When your eyes twinkled just so
I could see the flicker of heat in your own soul.
And Damn!
I love toasted marshmallows.
She sits there with blank and inward gaze.
A hostage to this war,
This war raged on innocence.
It is her life, but it is not lived.
She exists.
She exists on the fringe
At
a safe tenuous and distance.
She almost remembers days before,
Before the long, silent embrace of fear.
Those days reside
in the graceful stretch of
the sun above the horizon,
in
the easy laughter and love sauntering through the day,
in the loud, boisterous welcome bellowed out at night.
She does not recognize this child/woman
Nor does she know this blank-eyed stare.
Now time is spent under cover.
And once again she is staring down the
night.
She shrinks into herself.
She exists
She exists on the fringe
At
a safe tenuous and distance.
She no longer fears that she will disappear.
She no longer fears that she
will be a casualty of this war.
She
fears that she will not.
I ache with the weight of many years,
pushing up against the back of my throat,
pushing up from the bottomless void of my heart.
I ache with the tears, the screams, the anger waiting for their cue.
They are no longer patient. They are no longer hidden.
I cannot eat. I cannot drink. I cannot sleep.
I ache knowing that when they erupt, when they explode, they will shake
the foundation of my reality.
I feel them pushing, shoving, clamoring to be free.
Anger rages, screams build, tears flood my body & drown us all.
I ache as my body shakes but the battering continues.
How long? How long before the last barrier falls?
How long before I am overrun by these barbarians?
I hear that it happened for you,
again. So I struggle to keep the
smile pasted on my face. I wonder if
you know what bargains I would make
to trade places.
Sometimes I think myself insane
when I realize the lengths
I have gone to feel that flutter.
This slight movement that you
have called bothersome
and inconvenient,
I would name
Joy.
I wrote this after seeing a poem another friend had written. Writing and posting poetry is taking a risk. LOL is an acronym used on the Internet...it means Laugh Out Loud (or laugh on-line). I was expressing my joy and awe at the risk-taking. I really like the way this one flowed.
LEAP!
1/21/99
Look at you!
Out on that
Limb, perched
In careless grace.
Another woman who has
Met herself in the
Abyss and yet would
Merrily climb to the tree top
And leap hoping to catch the
Zephyrs* under her wing.
Excitement stirs in my heart
Dear friend just watching.
*zephyr \Zeph"yr\, n. [L. zephyrus, Gr.
?, akin to ? darkness, the dark side, west: cf. F. z['e]phyr.] The west
wind;
poetically, any soft, gentle breeze. ``Soft
the zephyr blows.'' --Gray.
[from Dictionary.com]
Mine...all mine...and very very very silly. Heh. http://www.activitieskauai.com/Luau_Kit.htm We were trying to think of themes and I tossed this one out. There does not seem to be many poems about this topic. I was amused.
Roast Pig, Anyone?
1/21/99
Laughter sits at this
Unaffected torchlit table.
Another gathering to feast
Upon an apple eating beast.
Naturally hula dancers at this
Oft attended meal sway to island music
With so smooth hip swinging bliss.
The theme appeared to be breakfasts and mornings...I am a night person, decidedly not a morning person.
I Need Coffee
1/22/99
Interest in the day, this food or
Any interest in my life seems to want to
stay in
My still warm bed.
Another day arrives too early and
Breakfast stares back at me
In soggy despair.
Taking another look at the back of a
Cereal box that I
Have read every morning this week,
I arrange it in front of me as a barricade.
Nosey questions are then evaded.
Truly I wish I were back in that bed
Honoring my skin that revels against warm
sheets
Every blanket and pillow just so.
And I would sigh, close my eyes and
Moan in ecstasy. Since I am not, set up
the caffeine IV.
This was a "springboard" off of someone else's poem about death. I've been reading about mother-daughter relationships of which Demeter and Persephone are one of the most famous.
The Return of Spring
(3/9/99)
Do you recall that famous daughter and her
shouted words,
Echoing down into the cleft in the earth,
fleeing like startled birds,
After her women welcomed her back from
the abduction?
"Take your pomegranates and your winter-like
intention
Home with you! I'm done with your cold
comfort!"
While she directed her fear and anger downward,
An Abductor sighed. His thoughts he found
so difficult to word,
"I would have given her all she wished
at any hint or mention!
Though I could not have anticipated THIS
ascension,
She will return, I know." In his resolve
he shouted back, "I'll wait!"