I have neglected to share my poetry here lately, so after another stimulating gathering of poets yesterday, I am inspired to put some up today.
For our gatherings, we have prompts to work to, but I have so many poems in my archives that I usually just pick a couple from amongst them. One of yesterday’s prompts though was ‘Loss’, and I knew that I’d have no shortage to fit that theme.
In this one, I have personified a deserted house, and the poem is about its loss – the loss of its family.
DESERTED HOUSE
Years have passed
Is it ten or maybe fifty
since unshod feet skipped lightly over my meandering paths
and stopped
to kick pebbles into childish dreams
Since laughter
arm in arm with freedom
was carried by breezes through my open windows
and filtered indelibly
through every wall
through every room
Since swaying jonquils caressed my walls
when days were lax
and living gentle
Is it ten or maybe fifty
How long since eucalyptus-perfumed smoke
heaved heavy through my sturdy chimneys
and billowed out bold
to be swallowed by wintering clouds
How long since my shambly steps foretold
of the warm hospitality
and keen conversation
waiting within
Too long I fear
for my paths are grown-over
dreams have matured
grown stale and died
The wind now carries only sounds of weeping
through my cob-webbed window jambs
and the penetrating minds
have fled the mournful tunes
Stern thorns replace the dainty jonquils
and scratch and scrape my failing walls
Too long
Too long
My hearth is cold
and sunlight’s breath lies naked at my door.
This next piece was something I wrote while staying with my mother in her cottage by the sea on Kangaroo Island – a few years ago.
KI STORM
Morning one. The sea was wild. I came up out of the sheltered hollow of my mother’s place to see huge waves crashing onto the rocks. The sea is frightening in that state, and yet it attracts me.
I breathed in the wild, salty air as I walked. I felt good – defying the storm with my deep, strong breaths.
That night the wind intensified until a savage storm raged around the little cottage, battering it relentlessly. In my bed I felt the shudder and tremble of its structure.
Next morning we heard on the radio that the winds had reached ninety kilometers an hour. Trees had been blown over, rooves torn off. Perhaps it was the sturdy stone fireplace and chimney of Mum’s little cottage that had kept it well anchored.
There have been fairy penguins under the wooden floor of the house, each night – in intense penguin conversation – mating conversation I’d say.
The second morning I walked through the bush to the sea. It was a little calmer now. The waves were smacking onto the rocks in a dying anger – skies still grey, air still divine to breathe. I closed my eyes and smiled.
Any creativity a soul has within them seems to surface here. There’s time, there’s isolation, there’s soft Nature and small animals, and birds. People without an artistic bone in their body, seem to want to express their feelings here. They want to paint, to write, to make.
I love to watch the edges of Nature – in silhouette against the evening sky – fuzzy tops of tea-trees, the stronger lines of clumps of gum-tree foliage.
By the third day, the storm had abated, completely. The sea was back to gentle – lapping softly at the shore. Two cormorants stood airing their wings on the rocks.
There were wild fruits to eat in the bush. Small, round birds – robins, wrens and silver-eyes, flitted and hopped in front of me. A magnificent sea-eagle soared high above, in an enormous bright grey sky.
A poem –
Now my eyes shall shutter-boxed and hourglass steady
still the landscape
and impress more than the just-moving spear-grass
upon the latitude of my mind
The brittle last-year blades submit
to the rigor of an unremitting wind
while the young and sturdy greenness
hastening the other’s inevitable decay
spreads
strong and mingling
and morning-dew-glistening
Tin-whistle birds flit fearlessly
around my inconspicuousness
while a leaping inner joy strains
against my stillness
Each becomes an instrument in an avian symphony
no
not becomes
has always been
but today I am on a Utopian balcony
and the music permeates my soul
The warm sun strokes my undefended body
while grey aloneness
cold uncertainty
and unfulfilled dreams
are finally thawed
and thinned
It feels good to have added to the works. Back to normal schedule at the end of the month.
Warmly,
Sue
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