"The morning after the battle of Waterloo", by John Heaviside Clarke, 1816. Image care of Wikimedia Commons.
For the final One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry, and the grand opening of the dVerse Poets Pub, I would like to bring back a classic – the poem with which I introduced myself at the first One Shot Wednesday, in July last year, when One Stop was still just a glitter and a gleam in the eyes of a few good poets.
It is dark, and due to its age not the style of mine to which you may have become accustomed, but I hope you enjoy it all the same – and if you’d like to see the piece with which I more officially gave my ending salute to that wonderful art community, check out last week’s contribution: One Winter Morning.
- – -
Restless nightmares break,
From wretched slumber do I wake
To a world of endless night—
Thunderous choirs make me crouch in fright.
High above us wraiths now soar,
Men clasp their ears to deafen their roar.
Over hills and shattered streets,
The bands come marching to woeful beats.
A hundred thousand voices cry,
Then all the singers die.
Silent morning springs
the rain’s gentle kiss nothing
to the loss of you.
Enfold in me
your light, your life–
sweet summer child
turn not your color from my heart,
the scent of pine trees,
sculpted in the dawning,
where all of nature is the swell at your sweet breast,
the gathered breaths cultivating
convalesced coercion of my soul.
Breath to breath, I seek your notes,
the tantalized texture of your smile
writhes still in me, in places
only faith should know.
You drink me, though you do not know
the taste of my desire–
the character in the caricature–
myself, I, wilting in that shade,
in those dark places where your lips and light
shall never know, nor ever sing.
Bloomed in yellow visions
With the milky drink of your lips—
My latest submission for the gathering that is One Shot Wednesday. Returning this week to a style that’s been an old favorite of mine – the cinquain – for the purposes of capturing that summer swell. Lord knows we’ve had the weather for it here.
I fade in secret
Heart with the rain and the leaves—
Wilting spring flowers.
Image by and copyright Walter Parada.
Red rivers ride
A smile and a hand, freely offered
belie the tip—
it’s not a stick you know
that I’ll stick you with,
not a dream doused with dreamers.
God or Man
the mortar drips
beneath the marble—
just a dab of purity to hide
* A piece for this week’s edition of One Shoot Sunday. This week features an interview I had with the talented Californian photographer Walter Parada. I was very grateful for the images he chose to share with us, as I find them all to be absolutely striking, from his landscapes to his portraits, and on to the image featured above.
when you would walk through moon beams
silver youth, in my mind,
your long-tossed hair that fleeting glimpse
unworthy hands would never know.
A dream-wrought kiss
for all sensation’s cheer—
a note to set the pen to dance
beneath your light.
What is your name?
Reality, but a longing and a life
no bearing on the yearning—
the dreamer’s supple realm.
A thousand ships would sail for you,
in mind, while your eyes turned—
it wasn’t till the flesh took my hand,
crowned in cruel identity
cast me out to sea
that all those ships were set to burning.
* My latest contribution to One Shot Poetry Wednesday. This piece was essentially the second part to the post I made yesterday, on muses and their very real, physical departure, in the form of people. Yesterday I gave other people’s thoughts on muses, but today I put forth my own thoughts on the muse’s withdrawal. For those with a physical embodiment to their own creative drive…
treason, foulest madness;
you thought that you could break my heart–
My own mother and I, featured here at my graduation.
Raise me up
From breathless sound,
The song you sing—life’s song—
The motions and the rhyme
Ring in lessons, tender
Borne on emerald winds
The flowering will always be remembered,
The bloom you brought
With hands held and patient eyes,
Even in depths of mathematical madness
Where children were not meant to play,
Even balancing worlds upon slim shoulders,
Step softly so little eyes won’t see and—
Ever, always watching you
Stir what might otherwise dwell
Hidden in the reeds.
* A special dedication for mother’s day – I know some other corners of the world have already had theirs, but the sentiments remain. For all those amazing women out there that put up with so much (I know we can be a handful)…here’s to you.
My cousin's children, seen here at Christmas.
Youth. You smile as you
flutter off in crooked flight
spring storms—a notion.