The Walk

It’s never enough to walk the walk.

The walk springs heels

heels spring teeth

and the subtle lines–

grace and poise–

they sink their teeth into the eyes

spun in lies routinely filed

hook-line-sinker

for the heart:

flesh always leads astray.

Circular

Entwined

as feathered flock upon the breeze

somewhat less divine in our declined

pirouettes toward the seas—

these claws are not unbloodied,

these beaks, they aims to ache,

but though our flight be muddied

our crosses yet shall never break,

for neither I, nor you

can take the pain we bring,

but far worse the silence would accrue

without that other voice to sing.

Children’s World

It is a magic flute that sings.

Dancing in twilight

muddied children know

the contours of love’s beat—

The Rain

no obstacle.

Poetic Spotlight: I Am Not Yours

Public Domain image of Sara Teasdale. Image itself care of Wikimedia Commons.

This week, the spotlight falls on one Sara Teasdale, a lyrical poet of the early 20th century.

Sara Teasdale is a fine example of a tribulation many poets, writers, and other creative sorts have faced throughout history: depression. Many that pursue the arts seem to fall into it, as they fall into all emotions–heavily, for it seems often enough, this is the trade-off they must face for being able to tap those emotions and draw their power into their words, their art.

As such, Teasdale was a lonely woman. She found herself gripped by that, and by the darkness of her depression–it ate at her, and shone through in her works as often as the topic of love and the heart. There was such an undercurrent of longing…it should come as no surprise things ended for her the way they did.

Though a master of language, her words apparently were not enough to reach the world, and Teasdale committed suicide in 1933 by overdose on sleeping pills, just two years after the suicide of another famous poet–and friend of hers–that shall form next week’s spotlight. She is immortalized today in St. Louis’s Walk of Fame.

But today’s poem of hers showcases the heart, the love, and yes, that longing…the quality in her works that makes her so very human.

I Am Not Yours

 

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

 

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

 

Oh plunge me deep in love — put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

 

~Sara Teasdale

To lie in Auburn Summer

Dawn-lit lovers tell of Indian summers,

the name and shape of which are lost

to caresses of cabaret visions,

the Auburn night that host

beach-born indecision,

the look that chains that sky unto the post

between grains of fleshed collusion–

she sings still in toast,

to the figure of our delusion.

Colors

White are the grains

sprinkling life between us.

Red wraps the heartstrings

of the child’s morning cry.

Green sprout the seeds

of soul, nurtured in your light.

A few words on love

Victor Hugo, image care of Wikimedia Commons.

“The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved – loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.” 
~Victor Hugo

“Love doesn’t sit there like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all of the time, made new.” 
~Ursula K. Le Guin

One Winter Morning

She woke before me,

straining her brush through aurora strands,

smiling at the pale gown

reflected in the blue-green mirror.

 

When she stretches,

pink melon breasts exposed at the nipple

collect prism dew, drowning

in the throb of rehydrated crystal needles.

 

The vapors of her perfume are scentless,

senselessly caressing the rivers of her eyes

like butterfly winds—fluttering out

from east to west; an oriental song.

 

But the lantern burns—

by night she is radiantly departed:

she lays her head in my lap

and the mascara runs in shadows down my leg.

*Out of season by the title, I know, but I hope you’ve all enjoyed the cool touch of this one all the same…my contribution to what may well be the last, or one of the last One Shot Wednesdays at One Stop Poetry. It has been an honor and a pleasure, everyone. I look forward to visiting you all outside of the linkies though, and to continue basking in your poetry as time rolls on.

Solstice Tanka

I wanted something suitably nature-oriented for this special One Shot Wednesday – since the party begins on Tuesday, after all, and this Tuesday is the summer solstice, the longest and (hopefully) most beautiful of days. My inspiration seemed cut off by grey clouds this morning, sadly, but with the afternoon there seems to have come a break in the haze of summer, treating my muse to blue skies and colored fields. In that same vein, I tried to step outside my usual, and go for a touch of tanka.

Hope the weather’s treating you all as kindly. May it be a fertile day for creativity!

Mother dances green

Before Father’s skyward kiss.

Sweet husband Golden

Pirouetting long shadows

Across her blossom billows.

And here’s a bit of greenery to put a little summer slant into your day…cheers!

Image property of: Chris Galford.

Her #Haiku

It is dew I drink

Mere drops of her spirit fall

Yet it is all world.