Stories

Stories repeated through generations,
each handing on to the next, some truth,
all gathered in memory of mind and cell;
bequeathing the old to new youth.

Time sifted through those many tales,
tinkering with plot and characters,
reworking ancient facts as mythology;
released in each birth as factors.

And now, repeating, as I do such accounts,
there is a sense of entering into that past,
embarking on a journey of remembering;
handing on each story as they have asked.

NB: not sure I have this right but tried all the same.

II.

In that instant of a drowning madeleine,
transported through the seas of memory
and feeling,  he was adrift on oceans of
smell and taste, sweet, aromatic, sensory -

I looked up from the book, it was time
for coffee and a madeleine from the freezer.

http://dversepoets.com/2015/06/25/meeting-the-bar-with-time-travel/#comment-97261

Puzzled

Lump it all together,
compact and concise,
pack it into memory;
bitter and the nice.

Nervous is the heart,
anxious is the mind,
jittery the palms;
pain is so confined.

Puzzled is the psyche,
patient is the soul,
questing is the self;
so is grief resolved.

http://www.threewordwednesday.com/




 

Waiting for the rains

In that time of waiting, breath held, captured,

as dust sighs on suffocating, surrendered leaf,

silence sits, sullen, suppurating without breeze;

heat holds court, commands; hours textured.

Days are teased through long, stretched seconds,

where minutes sit like years on wearied minds,
as humidity does plot with searing sun defined;

and birds huddle, in gasps which do not lessen.

Breathing through the steaming soup of season,

desperate for the cooling rains to come once more,

watching for bright sky to breed deep, dark flaws;

some do surely stumble into sudden loss of reason.

Madness in those moments of a world expectant,

dragging through the daylight to soothing darkness,

human, animal, bird, leaf and thirsty earth confess;

so all wait for those first drops of rain as presence.

Monsoon One and Two

Monsoon is bared with bitter teeth,

as windy shrieks torment;

the sinking day is ravaged,

the night is fully rent.

Within the howling arms,

we shudder to the floor;

close mind and eyes to sight

and pray for peaceful dawn.

The shattering of windows

with glass in vicious dance;

the timber splinters wilfully

as homes are torn apart.

In small and shivered huddling,

we know ourselves as borne

on arms of deadly wondering,

as Mother Nature yawns.

The eye is hard upon me,

the mouth spits vicious breath;

cyclone in violent birthing,

creates, destroys and rests.

And in the silent endings,

as whispered words are held,

the living drag back into life

and death rings mournful bells.

The night has fallen into day,

the storm into itself

and life returns to broken calm;

where order creeps in stealth.

NB: I wrote this after experiencing one of the worst cyclone's in Bombay's history during Monsoon season. I was protected by hiding under a bed but many living in flimsy shelters, as countless thousands do, were not so lucky and neither were the fishermen whose bodies washed up on the beach for weeks afterwards.



MONSOON TWO

Rain drums shamanic, insistent, determined, deploying liquidity,

reminding, rewarding, renewing all that it meets in downward fall,

washing, rinsing, removing and sustaining life in all its forms;

as if, the heavens had drunk deep, only to release at season's call.

 

In all that sloughing, sundering, swallowing and liquid surrendering,

so do the angels watch, submissive, ordering the elements to rise,

that cycles of dry and wet may be set in harmonic, prayered emotion;

hope can speak again in drowning words, in certain beat with time.

 

The world does dance to rhythms worked in that which is unseen,

and monsoon cannot be held to any sure, or gauranteed account,

these daily drenchings come in ways both whimsical and flawed;

each atom does rejoice when expectations, reality can mount.



NB: I wrote this last year during Malawi's Wet Season.
P.S. I was inspired with more thoughts reading others on dverse but will not post it here as too much to read as it is.





http://dversepoets.com/2015/06/23/poetics-sinful-monsoon/#comment-97137

Voices

What are we if we do not speak,
if our voices cannot be heard,
offering as they do our own meagre
truth, and perceptions which can

come from no other and which
are all we have to hand to another;
hoping only that we can be heard,
even if the words are not welcome?

I ask only that you defend my right
to speak, and allow yourself to
listen, if just to acknowledge that,
like you, I am also here, learning.

Hole in the world

There is a hole in the world where you once were,

a gap of such dimensions it cannot ever be missed,

and yawns in cavernous gaping, like some shocking

smile, smashed open, holding to eternal edges, where

 

my heart hovers by the threatening boundaries of

the abyss, and my mind huddles to one side, every

now and again, peeping into that darkness, as if in

an unexpected moment, I could see you there again;

 

as if I could find your shape deep inside that chasm,

and then, pull it back into place, haul it from the lair,

where it had been hiding, lost to sight, disappeared

into that bunker of time, that grotto of grief which had

 

claimed it, and broken the world I had known asunder,

wrought that fathomless depth with its wounded mouth,

destined to remain open, silent, mocking, keening in

a voice which echoed through memory, and which spoke

 

always of what once was and might never be again,

now that you were lost on the other side of that hole

in the world I once knew, where only your desire could

see you clamber back through, and close it up again.

 

 

 

 

Nightmare

Hideous horse of darkness which cannot be reined,
or pulled to any reasoned stop or place of peace,
but rides the hours of midnight till all is drained;
so does psyche saddle us with no sure release.

Through worlds of dreams and cruel imagining,
the hooves do thunder on our cobbled fears,
allowing nothing in the realms of sleep fulfilling;
draws us on through minutes as if eternal years.

Horror crouches, holding on to sweating beast,
determined not to fall to crushing depths below,
heart pounding as the demons laugh and feast;
so we stay the distance, fast then cruelly slow.

Only in the moments when horizon can be lit,
and daylight draws the torture to a final end,
are we left abandoned, holding rusted, empty bit;
all illusion ended as consciousness does mend.

http://margoroby.com/2015/06/16/poem-tryouts-nightmares/

Dead

Dead, that part of being which could truly feel,
numb the heart of knowing, devoid of relevance,
nothing is important in that place of cold emotion;
sympathetic soul surrenders; bereft of eloquence.

Hungry is the self which craves for new meaning,
scavenging through scattered crumbs of possibility,
picking gently with bony, withered fingers of hope;
desiring to be nourished; healed of vulnerability.

Threaten do the realms of hopelessness and fear,
hostile in dimension and intended brutal cause,
convinced surrender can hold off all future pain;
bent on suffocation  of all senses; no remorse.

Hungry is the self which craves for new meaning,
threaten do the realms of hopelessness and fear,
dead, that part of being which could truly feel;
distant is the song of life: yet love can always hear.

http://www.threewordwednesday.com/

Food

Light is made material,
in colour, shape and form,
substantial and ethereal;
all our food is born.

Consciousness in cherries,
cows and carrots too,
cornucopia brimming;
all for me and you.

Nature offers nourishment,
varied and sublime,
bringing us our nutrients;
all that is required.

Succulent the fruits,
tempting all that veg,
nothing can't be used;
everything so fresh.

So is life sure offered,
more than we can eat,
bounty to be gathered;
leaving us replete.

http://dversepoets.com/2015/06/16/poetics-you-are-my-caviar/

 

Hermit

That place where one can sit in silence, be alone

And where the presence of others is not denied,

But put aside, to form that crucible of isolation;

To make that haven of solace and required distance.

 

If only there were more such quiet realms waiting,

Or ready to be constructed, somewhere inside of mind,

Holding out the promise of peace and concentration;

Undisturbed by noise and travails in this time.

 

Yet in our constant, deep, demanded connection, is

It possible to step aside, to put ourselves beyond

Others, distinct from hearts and minds which call

Across oceans and through hours; always touching?

If only

If only we could turn back time,
or trim the world to fit, edit, tidy
draw new shapes, hold back the
pain a bit. But life remains

inexorable, all happens as it
should, at least that's what I
tell myself, to ease the hurt
which holds, and make it

just more bearable, diluted
in its form, so mind and
heart can process, assimilate,
absorb, and find a place

where hopes can stand, and
where the future hints, of
possibilities, now felt lost;
of love returned as gift.

If only we could turn back time,
or trim the world to fit, edit, tidy
draw new shapes, hold back the
pain a bit. But life remains.......

Place

Having had my first effort at a palindrome summarily removed as a link without any warning or guidance, or time given to correct, I have turned the original variation on the theme of palindrome so it can be read backwards.

And if this gets removed I give up.

I.



The cuckoo in the nest which time did bring,
as if my form could have no settled shape,
destined to be other, held separate and apart:
there seemed to be no place to put myself.

No matter all the efforts and the tears,
the one who would find no sure place to rest,
the cuckoo in the nest which time did bring,
and I was doomed to never quite fit in.

As if my form could have no settled shape,
the twisting to manoeuvre into place,
no matter all the efforts and the tears;
there seemed to be no place to put myself.

As if my form could have no settled shape,
and I was doomed to never quite fit in,
the twisting to manoeuvre into place;
No matter all the efforts and the tears.

The cuckoo in the nest which time did bring:
and I was doomed to never quite fit in,
as if my form could have no settled shape;
there seemed to be no place to put myself.


II.

There seemed to be no place to put myself, 

as if my form could have no settled shape, 

and I was doomed to never quite fit in; 

the cuckoo in the nest which time did bring. 

 

No matter all the efforts and the tears, 

the twisting to manoeuvre into place, 

and I was doomed to never quite fit in; 

as if my form could have no settled shape. 

 

There seemed to be no place to put myself, 

no matter all the efforts and the tears, 

the twisting to manoeuvre into place; 

as if my form could have no settled shape. 

 

And I was doomed to never quite fit in, 

the cuckoo in the nest which time did bring, 

the one who would find no sure place to rest; 

no matter all the efforts and the tears. 

 

There seemed to be no place to put myself, 

destined to be other, held separate and apart, 

as if my form could have no settled shape; 

the cuckoo in the nest which time did bring.

 

 

http://dversepoets.com/2015/06/11/meeting-the-bar-palindrome-poetry

 

Seasons

I watched you over seasons ever long,
saw time take you to where you did belong,
and days draw in to limit, keep, retain;
a song of life sung to its own refrain.

The drum was distant yet you heard the call,
and followed where it led and gave your all,
committed to the path, let angels lead;
left behind what did not fit your creed.

It was as if you followed maps unseen,
determined to make real your inner dreams,
and in the doing left us far behind,
until there was no trace of you to find.

So now we mark the edges of your form,
seek substance in the shadows finely drawn,
and hold to memories of all you were;
gone now, and likely never to return.

 https://imprompt.wordpress.com/2015/06/11/the-yam/

 

Blemish

Yes I am less than perfect,

those defects are displayed,

the fault of inner grieving;

disfigurement engraved.

But Soul has no deformity,

and ego may be bruised,

as Self repairs the damage

from years of heavy use.

'Erect,' the angels whispered,

stand tall, upright and straight,

hold to your inner knowing,

let no-one fabricate.

There could be no dishonour,

in being who I was,

constructed in experience;

assembled in full trust.

Unique in all time made me,

with foibles, flaws and vice,

lopsided in so many ways,

askew, awry, not nice.

And yet in all the ruins,

of who I might have been,

was someone truly beautiful;

things are not what they seem.

 

For in the dregs and dross,

the blights and scars alike,

stains and smears of being,

we shine as heart's delight.

There can be nothing perfect,

time renders us reduced,

and in the wounds of living,

we find our deepest truths.

 

Blemish, erect, lopsided.

http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2015/06/3ww-week-no-431.html

Moon

A light in the moon by Silke Otto-Knapp


Wistful in your rising into sallow night,
holding to horizon as you draw yourself,
up into the dusted, fading drift of sky;
so is moon then placed on heaven's shelf.

Subtle is your dance of yellowed light,
caressing edge and form of all below,
redolent and making darkness bright;
fears dispelled of that we do not know.

Softer is your touch than shining day,
gentler is the face you bring to earth,
wiser is the gift of hallowed gaze;
watching over dreams as they do birth.

Visions creep at edges bare revealed,
hiding from the truth you would display,
sun now lost and for the hours is sealed;
lunacy  does beckon, leads us all astray.



http://dversepoets.com/2015/06/09/poetics-black-and-white/

Dreams

Cavalcade of dreaming,
darkest night careering,
spinning ever onwards;
falling into meaning.

Houses without rooves,
horses without ears,
dogs with purple fur;
realms of deepest fears.

Faces without form,
falling without end,
demons send us fleeing;
consciousness pretends.

Running without clothes,
naked in all sight,
horrors in the dawn;
desperate for the light.

http://margoroby.com/2015/06/09/poem-tryouts-dream-symbols/

The sound of noise

Endless in vibrations,
constantly they beat,
frequencies berated;
loudly do they meet.

Slowly in the gathering,
sounds do fully rise,
turning into noise;
why are we surprised?






https://imprompt.wordpress.com/2015/06/09/noise/

Obscure

Obscure I found your message,
uncertain, not defined, and in
the shuttered meaning, your
thoughts were not refined.

Communication limited, in
words which could not reach,
like buried stars in galaxies,
the black holes did beseech.

Guarded were your utterings,
implied and deep concealed,
ambiguous and shrouded,
our love could never heal.

Those covert sullen memories,
and cryptic, private thoughts,
were held in realms divided,
no matter how I sought.

In enigmatic wanderings,
I followed you so far and
lost myself in darkness;
remote and selfish wars.

Undisclosed and undivulged,
was how you really felt,
passions blocked and dying;
all hopes did slowly melt.

Impassable the boundaries,
disguised the limits known,
secluded in my agonies;
the future cruelly gone.

Days were deeply buried,
nights were camouflaged,
hours were hushed eternally;
I wept in veiled quiet.

 

childhood

Trying to make sense of a world
where things changed, and so
did places and people; new homes
and different emotions and responses,

unexpected, unexplained, and where
the child was often mother, caring
for the mother, and the children,
separated from the games and the

opportunity for playing; held in
realms of imagination as she washed,
scrubbed, polished, cooked and
tended to younger siblings, only

rarely, realising the sun shone on
bare skin and the clouds shook
themselves against glorious blue,
folding in and around with a soft

caress, and tender gathering, like
the blossoms on the fruit trees in
Spring, and the golden shudder
of leaves falling in Autumn, and

all of it compressed into tight,
cold Winters, huddled next to an
open fire, knowing the worn lino
would be freezing to bare feet,

each morning, and the gas
shower would explode in rage
when lit, thundering into being
like so many others in that world

of the child, in that place where
laughter could catapult through
tender bellies, and smiles draw
wide enough to let in hope, and

allow forgetting, even as raw
chillblains throbbed on the long
walk to school, and dreams kept
step to hold the days in place,

to stitch with steady thread, the
liquid, crystal song of magpies,
and the redolent perfume of
eucalypt: memory embroidered.








How did you spend your childhood
and early adolesence? Let’s hear about your

https://imprompt.wordpress.com/2015/06/08/theres-no-place-id-rather-be/

Gift

Place within so hidden,

abstract, yet defined,

intensity of being;

so is the Soul refined.

Life can maim the senses,

reduce the self to nought,

render us defenceless;

so our fate is brought.

Embossed is inner mind,

with psyche surely split,

corroded is all hope;

revealed the hidden gift.

https://imprompt.wordpress.com/2015/06/06/build-your-own/

 

A rose by my name

Photo: Starting school at age five.

A ROSE BY MY NAME

My name means rose,

a flower of succulent

beauty, nestled above

sharp thorns, ready to

protect and preserve.

 

Roslyn, as the Brahmins

say, the Almighty has

permanent abode, in

the heart of the silver

Rose, and it connects

 

to the Solar Wheel of

the Horizon, and holds

as Virgin Sophia and

the Rose of Sharon, to

ancient realms and as

 

a sign, of heavenly grace,

a name my mother saw

on a signpost near home,

as Rosslyn Place, and

deemed it right for her

 

first daughter, removing

one 's' to lessen confusion

given the surname was

Ross, although, even then

she had gifted her child

 

a name to confuse others,

when it was shortened,

as names always are in

Australia, to a repetition

of sound and syllable,

 

as if, somehow the name

might be forgotten, or

for the sake of soul-work

needed to be repeated, and

consistently affirmed. 

Ros means dew, and hill;

that place where the white

horse roams, and Urus, the

bull, carries the Christ child,

as Horus of the Horizon.

Behind it stands Hilda,

the goddess as guardian,

and warrior; she who is

known as battle woman,

saint and protector - a

 

name gifted from both

grandmothers, although

one long dead, before the

birth, and the other, just

a few years later when

 

barely known, but still

recognised. A name to

be hated as a child and

honoured and appreciated

as an adult when the true

 

meaning had been found,

and that sense gained of

maternal guardians always

on watch, to collect the

petals as they slowly fell,

 

and to nourish each new

breath of bud and life,

blooming as Ross, that

headland of Soul, blood-

red promontory of being,

 

drawn from the Gaelic,

through Russian and

Greek, and known by the

Norse as Hrossay, horse

island, and also to others

as the rough, scaly matter

on the surface of the bark

of trees: all gifts woven

as spells in the life of a

newly born girl-child.

NB: Written for a prompt asking about our names.

Divinity

Absorbed the inner moment,
intensively engaged, engrossed
in soul creation; utterly required.
Deeply drawn to hidden depths,
places dark and wild, thus the
Self is sourced; thoroughly derived.
Frantic is the journey through,
fear walks by her side, as mind
is made eternal; divinity inspired.
http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2015/06/3ww-week-no-430.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+ThreeWordWednesday+%28Three+Word+Wednesday.%29